SAN  DIEGO 


A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 


A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 


BY 


F.    MARION    CRAWFORD 

AUTHOE  OF  "SARACINESCA,"  "DR.  CLAUDIUS,"  "KATHARINE 
LAUDERDALE,"  "  THE  RALSTOKS,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1897 

Ml  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1897, 
BY   F.   MAEION  CRAWFORD. 


Nortooot  $rcBB 

J.  S.  Cuihing  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood,  Man.  U.S.A. 


A  ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 


CHAPTER  I 

"  I  WONDER  what  he  meant  by  it,"  said  Syl 
via,  turning  again  in  her  chair,  so  that  the 
summer  light,  softened  and  tinted  by  the 
drawn  blinds,  might  fall  upon  the  etching  she 
held. 

"  My  dear,"  answered  Colonel  Wimpole,  stretch 
ing  out  his  still  graceful  legs,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  and  slowly  joining  his  nervous  but  hand 
some  hands,  "  nobody  knows." 

He  did  not  move  again  for  some  time,  and  his 
ward  continued  to  scrutinize  Diirer's  Knight.  It 
was  the  one  known  as  '  The  Knight,  Death,  and 
the  Devil,'  and  she  had  just  received  it  from  her 
guardian  as  a  birthday  present. 

"  But  people  must  have  thought  a  great  deal 
about  it,"  said  Sylvia,  at  last.  "  There  must  be 
stories  about  what  it  means.  Do  tell  me.  I'm 
sure  you  know." 

She  laid  the  unframed  print  upon  her  knees, 
still  holding  it  by  the  edges,  lest  the  fitful  breeze 


A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

that  came  in  through  the  blinds  should  blow  it 
to  the  floor.  At  the  same  time  she  raised  her 
eyes  till  they  met  the  colonel's. 

Her  earnest  young  face  expressed  something 
like  veneration  as  she  gazed  at  him,  and  perhaps 
he  thought  that  it  was  undeserved,  for  he  soon 
looked  away,  with  a  faint  sigh.  She  sighed,  too, 
but  more  audibly,  as  though  she  were  not  ashamed 
of  it.  Possibly  she  knew  that  he  could  not  guess 
what  the  sigh  meant,  and  the  knowledge  added 
a  little  pain  to  what  she  felt  just  then,  and  had 
felt  daily  of  late.  She  began  to  study  the  etch 
ing  again. 

"  To  me,"  she  said  softly,  "  the  Knight  is  a 
hero.  He  is  making  Death  show  him  the  way, 
and  he  has  made  the  Devil  his  squire  and  ser 
vant.  He  will  reach  the  city  on  the  hill  in 
time,  for  there  is  still  sand  enough  in  the  hour 
glass.  Do  you  see  ?  "  She  held  out  the  print 
to  the  colonel.  "  There  is  still  sand  enough," 
she  repeated.  "Don't  you  think  so?" 

Again,  as  she  asked  the  question,  she  looked 
at  him ;  but  he  was  bending  over  the  etching, 
and  she  could  only  see  his  clear  profile  against 
the  shadows  of  the  room. 

"  He  may  be  just  in  time,"  he  answered 
quietly. 

"  I  wonder  which  house  they  lived  in,  of  those 
one  can  see,"  said  Sylvia. 


A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY  3 

"Who  are  'they'?  Death,  the  Devil,  and 
the  Knight?" 

"No.  The  Knight  and  the  lady,  of  course, 
—  the  lady  who  is  waiting  to  see  whether  he 
will  come  in  time." 

The  colonel  laughed  a  little  at  her  fancy,  and 
looked  at  her  as  the  breeze  stirred  her  brown 
hair.  He  did  not  understand  her,  and  she  knew 
that  he  did  not.  His  glance  took  in  her  brown 
hair,  her  violet  eyes,  her  delicately  shaded  cheek, 
and  the  fresh  young  mouth  with  its  strange  little 
half-weary  smile  that  should  not  have  been  there, 
and  that  left  the  weariness  behind  whenever  it 
faded  for  a  time.  He  wondered  what  was  the 
matter  with  the  girl. 

She  was  not  ill.  That  was  clear  enough,  for 
they  had  travelled  far,  and  Sylvia  had  never 
once  seemed  tired.  The  colonel  and  Miss  Wim- 
pole,  his  elderly  maiden  sister,  had  taken  Sylvia 
out  to  Japan  to  meet  her  father,  Admiral 
Strahan,  who  had  been  stationed  some  time  with 
a  small  squadron  in  the  waters  of  the  far  East. 
He  had  been  ordered  home  rather  suddenly,  and 
the  Wimpoles  were  bringing  the  girl  back  by 
way  of  Europe.  Sylvia's  mother  had  been  dead 
three  years,  and  had  left  her  a  little  fortune. 
Mrs.  Strahan  had  been  a  step-sister,  and  no 
blood  relation,  of  the  Wimpoles ;  but  they  had 
been  as  a  real  brother  and  a  real  sister  to  her, 


4  A  KOSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

and  she  had  left  her  only  child  to  their  care 
during  such  times  as  her  husband's  service 
should  keep  him  away  from  home.  The  girl 
was  now  just  eighteen. 

Colonel  Wimpole  wondered  whether  she  could 
be  destined  for  suffering,  as  some  women  are, 
and  the  thought  linked  itself  to  the  chain  of 
another  life,  and  drew  it  out  of  his  heart  that 
he  might  see  it  and  be  hurt,  for  he  had  known 
pain  in  himself  and  through  one  he  loved.  He 
could  not  believe  that  Sylvia  was  forefated  to 
sorrow,  and  the  silent  weariness  that  of  late  was 
always  in  her  face  meant  something  which  he 
feared  to  learn,  but  for  which  he  felt  himself 
vaguely  responsible,  as  though  he  were  not 
doing  his  duty  by  her. 

He  was  a  man  of  heart,  of  honour,  and  of 
conscience.  Long  ago,  in  his  early  youth,  he 
had  fought  bravely  in  a  long  and  cruel  war,  and 
had  remained  a  soldier  for  many  years  after 
wards,  with  an  old-fashioned  attachment  for 
arms  that  was  dashed  with  chivalry,  till  at  last 
he  had  hung  up  his  sword,  accepting  peace  as 
a  profession.  Indeed  he  had  never  loved  any- 
-  thing  of  war,  except  its  danger  and  its  honour ; 
and  he  had  loved  one  woman  more  than  either, 
but  not  against  honour  nor  in  danger,  though 
without  any  hope. 

He  had  lived  simply,  as  some  men  can  and 
V 


A  ROSE  OP  YESTERDAY  5 

as  a  few  do  live,  in  the  midst  of  the  modern 
world,  parting  with  an  illusion  now  and  then, 
and  fostering  some  new  taste  in  its  place,  in  a 
sort  of  innocent  and  simple  consciousness  that 
it  was  artificial,  but  in  the  certainty  that  it  was 
harmless.  He  was  gentle  in  his  ways,  with  the 
quiet  and  unaffected  feeling  for  other  people 
which  not  seldom  softens  those  who  have  fought 
with  their  hands  in  the  conviction  of  right,  and 
have  dealt  and  received  real  wounds.  War 
either  brutalizes  or  refines  a  man ;  it  never 
leaves  him  unchanged.  Colonel  Wimpole  had 
travelled  from  time  to  time,  more  for  the  sake 
of  going  to  some  one  place  which  he  wished  to 
see,  than  of  passing  through  many  places  for  the 
sake  of  travelling.  There  is  a  great  difference 
between  the  two  methods.  Wherever  he  went, 
he  took  with  him  his  own  character  and  his 
slightly  formal  courtesy  of  manner,  not  leaving 
himself  at  home,  as  some  people  do,  nor  assum 
ing  a  separate  personality  for  Europe,  like  a 
disguise ;  for,  such  as  he  was,  he  was  incapable 
of  affectation,  and  he  was  sure  that  the  manners 
which  had  been  good  enough  for  his  mother 
were  good  enough  for  any  woman  in  the  world, 
as  indeed  they  were,  because  he  was  a  gentle 
man,  that  is,  a  man,  and  gentle  at  all  points, 
excepting  for  his  honour.  But  no  one  had  ever 
touched  that. 


0  A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

He  looked  what  he  was,  too,  from  head  to 
foot.  He  was  a  tall,  slender  man,  of  nervous 
strength,  with  steady  grey  eyes,  high  features, 
smooth,  short  and  grizzled  hair ;  simple  and  yet 
very  scrupulous  in  his  dress;  easy  in  his  move 
ments  ;  not  old  before  his  time,  but  having 
already  something  of  the  refinement  of  age  upon 
the  nobility  of  his  advanced  manhood ;  one  of 
whom  a  woman  would  expect  great  things  in  an 
extremity,  but  to  whom  she  would  no  longer 
turn  for  the  little  service,  the  little  fetching  and 
carrying,  which  most  women  expect  of  men  still 
in  prime.  But  he  did  such  things  unasked,  and 
for  any  woman,  when  it  seemed  natural  to  do 
them.  After  all,  he  was  only  fifty- three  years 
old,  and  it  seems  to  be  established  that  sixty 
is  the  age  of  man's  manumission  from  servitude, 
unless  the  period  of  slavery  be  voluntarily  ex 
tended  by  the  individual.  That  leaves  ten  years 
of  freedom  if  one  live  to  the  traditional  age  of 
mankind. 

But  Sylvia  saw  no  sign  of  age  in  Colonel 
Wimpole.  In  connexion  with  him  the  mere 
word  irritated  her  when  he  used  it,  which  he 
sometimes  did  quite  naturally,  and  he  would 
have  been  very  much  surprised  could  he  have 
guessed  how  she  thought  of  him,  and  what  she 
was  thinking  as  she  sat  looking  from  him  to 
Durer's  Knight  and  from  the  etched  rider  to  the 


A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY  7 

living  man  again.  For  she  saw  a  resemblance 
which  by  no  means  existed,  except,  perhaps, 
between  two  ideals. 

The  Knight  in  the  picture  is  stern  and  strong 
and  grim,  and  sits  his  horse  like  the  incarnation 
of  an  unchanging  will,  riding  a  bridled  destiny 
against  Death  and  Evil  to  a  good  end.  And 
Death's  tired  jade  droops  its  white  head  and 
sniffs  at  the  skull  in  the  way,  but  the  Knight's 
charger  turns  up  his  lip  and  shows  his  teeth  at 
the  carrion  thing  and  arches  his  strong  neck, 
while  the  Knight  looks  straight  before  him,  and 
cares  not,  and  his  steel-clad  legs  press  the  great 
horse  into  the  way,  and  his  steel-gloved  hand 
holds  curb  and  snaffle  in  a  vise.  As  for  the 
Devil,  he  slinks  behind,  an  evil  beast,  but  sub 
dued,  and  following  meanly  with  a  sort  of  mute, 
animal  astonishment  in  his  wide  eyes. 

And  beside  Sylvia  sat  the  colonel,  quiet,  gen 
tle,  restful,  suggesting  just  then  nothing  of  des 
perate  determination,  and  not  at  all  like  the 
grim  Knight  in  feature.  Yet  the  girl  felt  a 
kinship  between  the  two,  and  saw  one  and  the 
same  heroism  in  the  man  and  in  the  pictured 
rider.  In  her  inmost  heart  she  wished  that  she 
could  have  seen  the  colonel  long  ago,  when  he 
had  fought,  riding  at  death  without  fear.  But 
the  thought  that  it  had  been  so  very  long  ago 
kept  the  wish  down,  below  the  word-line  in  her 


A   ROSE   OF  YESTERDAY 

heart's  well.  Youth  clothes  its  ideals  with 
the  spirit  of  truth  and  hides  the  letter  out  of 
sight. 

But  in  the  picture,  Sylvia  looked  for  herself, 
since  it  was  for  a  lady  that  the  Knight  was 
riding,  and  all  she  could  find  was  the  big  old 
house  up  in  the  town,  on  the  left  of  the  tallest 
tower.  She  was  waiting  somewhere  under  the 
high-gabled  roof,  with  her  spinning-wheel  or  her 
fine  needlework,  among  her  women.  Would  he 
ever  come?  Was  there  time  before  the  sand  in 
Death's  hour-glass  should  run  out  ? 

"  I  wish  the  horse  would  put  his  fore  foot 
down,  and  go  on !  "  she  said  suddenly. 

Then  she  laughed,  though  a  little  wearily. 
How  could  she  tell  the  colonel  that  he  was 
the  Knight,  and  that  she  was  waiting  in  the 
tall  house  with  the  many  windows  ?  Perhaps 
he  was  never  to  know,  and  forever  the  charger's 
fore  foot  would  be  lifted,  ready  for  the  step  that 
was  never  to  fall  upon  the  path. 

But  Colonel  Wimpole  did  not  understand. 
It  was  unlike  her  to  wish  that  an  old  print 
should  turn  into  a  page  from  a  child's  movable 
picture-book. 

"  Why  do  you  wish  that  the  horse  would  go 
on?"  he  asked  half  idly. 

"  Because  the  sand  will  not  last,  if  he  waits," 
said  Sylvia,  quietly;  and  as  she  spoke  a  third 


A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

time  of  the  sand  in  the  hour-glass,  she  felt  a 
little  chill  at  her  heart. 

"There  will  always  be  time,"  answered  the 
colonel,  enigmatically. 

"As  there  will  always  be  air,  I  suppose;  and 
that  will  not  matter  to  us,  when  we  are  not  here 
to  breathe  it  any  more." 

"That  is  true.  Nothing  will  matter  very 
much  a  hundred  years  hence." 

"But  a  few  years  matter  much  more  than 
a  hundred."  Her  voice  was  sad. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked  Colonel 
Wimpole,  changing  his  position  so  as  to  see  her 
face  better. 

He  resented  her  sadness  a  little,  for  he  and 
his  sister  were  doing  their  best  to  make  her 
happy.  But  Sylvia  did  not  answer  him.  She 
bent  her  white  forehead  to  the  faint  breeze  that 
came  through  the  closed  green  blinds,  and  she 
looked  at  the  etching.  The  colonel  believed 
that  she  was  thinking  of  her  dead  mother, 
whom  she  had  loved.  He  hesitated,  choosing 
his  words,  for  he  hated  preaching,  and  yet  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Sylvia  mourned  too  long. 

"  I  was  very  fond  of  your  mother,  too,  my 
dear,"  he  said  gently,  after  a  time.  "  She  was 
like  a  real  sister  to  us.  I  wish  I  could  have 
gone  instead,  and  left  her  to  you." 

"You?"     Sylvia's  voice   startled   him;    she 


10  A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

was  suddenly  pale,  and  the  old  print  shook  in 
her  hands.  "Oh,  no!"  she  cried  half  passion 
ately.  "Not  you — not  you!" 

The  colonel  was  surprised  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  was  grateful,  for  he  felt  that  she 
was  very  fond  of  him.  He  thought  of  the 
woman  he  loved,  and  that  he  might  have  had 
such  a  daughter  as  Sylvia,  but  with  other 
eyes. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  fond  of  me,"  he  said. 
"You  are  very  good  to  me,  and  I  know  I  am 
a  tiresome  old  man." 

At  that  word,  one  beat  of  the  girl's  heart  sent 
resentful  blood  to  her  face. 

"You  are  not  old  at  all!"  she  cried.  "And 
you  could  not  be  tiresome  if  you  tried!  And 
I  am  not  good  to  you,  as  you  call  it!" 

The  girl's  young  anger  made  him  think  of 
summer  lightning,  and  of  the  sudden  flashing 
of  new  steel  drawn  silently  and  swiftly  from 
the  sheath  into  the  sunshine. 

"Goodness  may  be  a  matter  of  opinion,  my 
dear,"  said  he.  "But  age  is  a  matter  of  fact. 
I  was  fifty-three  years  old  on  my  last  birth- 
day." 

"Oh,  what  do  years  matter?"  Sylvia  rose 
quickly  and  turned  from  him,  going  towards  the 
window. 

The  colonel  watched   her   perfectly  graceful 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  11 

movements.  She  wore  grey,  with  a  small  black 
band  at  her  throat,  and  the  soft  light  clung  to 
the  lovely  outline  of  her  figure  and  to  her  brown 
hair.  He  thought  again  of  the  daughter  that 
might  have  been  born  to  him,  and  even  of  a 
daughter's  daughter.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
his  own  years  might  be  a  greater  matter  than 
Sylvia  would  admit.  Yet,  as  their  descending 
mists  veiled  hope's  height,  he  was  often  glad 
that  there  should  not  be  as  many  more  as  there 
had  been.  He  said  nothing,  and  there  was  a 
dream  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  always  saying  that  you  are  old. 
Why?"  Sylvia's  voice  came  from  the  window, 
but  she  did  not  turn.  "  It  is  not  kind,"  she 
said,  still  more  softly. 

"Not  kind?"     He  did  not  understand. 

"It  is  not  kind  to  me.  It  is  as  though  I  did 
not  care.  Besides,  it  is  not  true !  " 

Just  then  the  conviction  had  come  back  to 
her  voice,  stronger  than  ever,  strengthening 
the  tone  just  when  it  was  breaking.  She  had 
never  spoken  to  him  in  this  way.  He  called 
her. 

"Sylvia!  Will  you  come  here,  my  dear?" 
She  came,  and  he  took  her  fresh  young  hands. 
"What  is  it?  Has  anything  happened?  Are 
you  unhappy?  Tell  me." 

At  his  question  the  violet  eyes  slowly  filled, 


12  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

and  she  just  bent  her  head  once  or  twice,  as 
though  assenting. 

"  You  are  unhappy?"  He  repeated  his  ques 
tion,  and  again  she  nodded  sadly. 

"But  happy,  too,  —  often." 

There  was  not  room  for  happiness  and  sorrow 
together  in  her  full  eyes.  The  tear  fell,  and 
gladness  took  its  place  at  his  touch.  But  he 
looked,  and  remembered  other  hands,  and  began 
to  know  the  truth.  Love's  unforgotten  spirit 
came,  wafting  a  breath  of  older  days. 

He  looked,  and  wondered  whom  the  girl  had 
chosen,  and  was  glad  for  her  happiness  while  he 
grew  anxious  for  its  life.  She  was  so  young 
that  she  must  have  chosen  lately  and  quickly. 
In  a  rush  of  inward  questioning  his  mind  ran 
back  through  the  long  journey  they  had  made 
together,  and  answers  came  in  many  faces  of 
men  that  glided  before  him.  One  of  them 
stopped  him  and  held  his  thought,  as  a  fleeting 
memory  will.  A  young  officer  of  her  father's 
flagship,  lean,  brown,  bright-eyed,  with  a  strong 
mouth  and  a  rare  smile.  Sylvia  had  often 
talked  with  him,  and  the  boy's  bright  eyes  used 
to  watch  her  from  the  distance  when  he  was 
not  beside  her.  Quiet  of  speech  he  was,  and 
resolute,  bred  in  the  keen  air  of  a  northern  sea, 
of  the  few  from  among  whom  fate  may  choose 
the  one.  That  was  the  man. 


A   ROSE   OP   YESTERDAY  13 

The  colonel  spoke,  then,  as  though  he  had 
said  much,  glad  and  willing  to  take  the  girl's 
conclusion. 

"  I  know  who  it  is,"  he  said,  as  if  all  had 
been  explained.  "  I  am  glad,  very  glad." 

His  hands  pressed  hers  more  tightly,  for  he 
was  a  man  of  heart,  and  because  his  own  life 
had  failed  strangely,  he  knew  how  happy  she 
must  be,  having  all  he  had  not.  But  the  violet 
eyes  grew  wide  and  dark  and  surprised,  and  the 
faint  colour  came  and  went. 

"  Do  you  really,  really  know  at  last  ? "  she 
asked,  very  low. 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know,"  he  said,  for  he  had  the 
sure  conviction  out  of  his  sympathy  for  the  child. 

"  And  you  are  glad  ?     Even  as  I  am  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  am !  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart, 
my  dear." 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  longer,  and  then 
her  sight  grew  faint,  and  her  face  hid  itself 
against  his  coat. 

"  Say  it !  Say  it  again  !  "  she  repeated,  and 
her  white  fingers  closed  tightly  upon  his  sleeve. 
"  I  have  waited  so  long  to  hear  you  say  it !  " 

An  uneasy  and  half-distressed  look  came  to 
his  face  instantly,  as  he  looked  down  at  the 
brown  hair. 

"What?"  he  asked.  "What  have  you 
waited  to  hear  me  say  ?  " 


14  A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

"  That  —  the  words  you  said  just  now."  Her 
face  still  hidden,  she  hesitated. 

"  What  did  I  say  ?  That  I  loved  you,  my 
dear  ?  " 

She  nodded  silently,  against  his  coat. 

"  That  I  have  always  loved  you,  Sylvia  dear," 
he  said,  while  a  wondering  fear  stole  through 
him. 

"  You  never  told  me.  And  I  did  not  dare 
tell  you  —  how  could  I  ?  But  now  you  under 
stand.  You  know  that  the  years  mean  nothing, 
after  all,  and  that  there  is  still  sand  in  the  hour 
glass,  and  you  and  I  shall  reach  the  end  of  the 
road  together  —  " 

"  Sylvia !  "  His  voice  rang  sharply  and  pain 
fully  as  he  interrupted  her. 

He  was  a  little  pale,  and  his  grey  eyes  wrere 
less  steady  than  usual,  for  he  could  not  be  mis 
taken  any  longer.  He  had  faced  many  dangers 
bravely,  but  the  girl  frightened  him,  clinging  to 
his  sleeve,  and  talking  of  her  half-childish  love 
for  him.  Then  came  the  shock  to  his  honour, 
for  it  seemed  as  though  it  must  somehow  have 
been  his  faul':. 

She  looked  up  and  saw  his  face,  but  could  not 
understand  it,  though  she  had  a  prevision  of 
evil,  and  the  stealing  sickness  of  disappointment 
made  her  faint. 

"  I  did  not  know  what  you  meant,  my  child," 


A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  15 

he  said,  growing  more  pale,  and  very  gently 
pushing  her  back  a  little.  "  I  was  thinking  of 
young  Knox.  I  thought  you  loved  him.  I  was 
so  sure  that  he  was  the  man." 

She  drew  back,  now,  of  her  own  will,  staring. 

"  Knox  ?  Mr.  Knox  ?  "  She  repeated  the 
name,  hardly  hearing  her  own  words,  half 
stunned  by  her  mistake.  "  But  you  said  —  you 
said  you  loved  me  —  " 

"  As  your  father  does,"  said  Colonel  Wimpole, 
very  gravely.  "  Your  father  and  I  are  just  of 
the  same  age.  We  were  boys  together.  You 
know  it,  my  dear." 

She  was  a  mere  child,  and  he  made  her  feel 
that  she  was.  Her  hands  covered  her  face  in 
an  instant  as  she  fled,  and  before  the  door  had 
closed  behind  her,  the  colonel  heard  the  first 
quick  sob. 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  stood  still,  look 
ing  at  the  door.  When  he  was  alone,  he  might 
have  smiled,  as  some  men  might  have  done,  not 
at  Sylvia,  indeed,  though  at  the  absurdity  of  the 
situation.  But  his  face  was  sad,  and  he  quietly 
sat  down  again  by  the  table,  and  began  to  think 
of  what  had  happened. 

Sylvia  was  very  foolish,  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  tried  to  impose  upon  his  mind  what  he 
thought  should  have  been  his  conviction.  Yet 
he  was  deeply  and  truly  touched  by  her  half- 


16  A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

childish  love,  and  its  innocence  seemed  pathetic 
to  him,  while  he  was  hurt  for  her  pain,  and  most 
of  all  for  her  overwhelming  confusion. 

At  the  same  time  came  memories  and  visions, 
and  his  head  sank  forward  a  little  as  he  sat  in 
his  chair  by  the  table.  The  vision  of  hope  was 
growing  daily  more  dim,  but  the  remembrance 
of  the  past  was  as  undying  as  what  has  been 
is  beyond  recall. 

Sylvia  would  wake  from  her  girlish  dream, 
and,  in  the  fulness  of  young  womanhood,  would 
love  a  man  of  her  own  years.  The  colonel  knew 
that.  She  would  see  that  he  was  going  in  under 
the  gateway  of  old  age,  while  she  was  on  the 
threshold  of  youth's  morning.  A  few  days,  or 
a  few  months,  or,  at  most,  a  few  years  more, 
and  she  must  see  that  he  was  an  old  man.  That 
was  certain. 

He  sighed,  not  for  Sylvia,  but  because  age  is 
that  deadly  sickness  of  which  hope  must  perish 
at  last.  Time  is  a  prince  of  narrow  possessions, 
absolute  where  he  reigns  at  all,  cruel  upon  his 
people,  and  relentless ;  for,  beyond  his  scanty 
principality,  he  is  nothing,  and  his  name  is  not 
known  in  the  empire  of  eternity.  Therefore 
while  he  rules  he  raises  the  dark  standard  of 
death,  taking  tribute  of  life,  and  giving  back  a 
slow  poison  in  return. 

Colonel  Wimpole  was  growing  old,  and,  though 


A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  17 

the  woman  he  still  loved  was  not  young,  she  was 
far  younger  than  he,  and  he  must  soon  seem  an 
old  man  even  in  her  eyes.  And  then  there  would 
not  be  much  hope  left.  Sadly  he  wondered  what 
Sylvia  saw  in  him  which  that  other  woman, 
who  had  known  him  long,  seemed  to  have  never 
quite  seen.  But  such  questioning  could  find  no 
satisfaction. 

He  might  have  remained  absorbed  in  his  re 
flexions  for  a  long  time  had  he  been  left  alone, 
but  the  door  opened  behind  him,  and  he  knew  by 
the  steady  and  precise  way  in  which  it  was  opened 
and  shut  that  his  sister  had  entered  the  room. 

"Richard,"  she  said,  "I  am  surprised."  Then 
she  stood  still  and  waited. 

Miss  Wimpole  was  older  than  her  brother, 
and  was  an  exaggeration  of  him  in  petticoats. 
Her  genuine  admiration  for  him  was  curiously 
tempered  by  the  fact  that,  when  they  had  been 
children,  she,  as  the  elder,  had  kept  him  out  of 
mischief,  occasionally  by  force,  often  by  author 
ity,  but  never  by  persuasion.  When  in  pina 
fores  the  colonel  had  been  fond  of  sweets.  Miss 
Wimpole  considered  that  he  owed  his  excellent 
health  to  her  heroic  determination  to  save  him 
from  destruction  by  jam.  Since  those  days  she 
had  been  obliged  to  yield  to  him  on  other  points, 
but  the  memory  of  victory  in  the  matter  of  pre 
serves  still  made  her  manner  authoritative. 


18  A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

She  was  very  like  him,  being  tall,  thin,  and 
not  ungraceful,  though  as  oddly  precise  in  her 
movements  and  gestures  as  she  was  rigid  in  her 
beliefs,  faithful  in  her  affections,  and  just  in 
her  judgments.  She  had  loved  a  man  who  had 
been  killed  in  the  civil  war,  and,  being  what  she 
was,  she  had  never  so  much  as  considered  the 
possibility  of  marrying  any  one  else.  She  was 
much  occupied  in  good  works  and  did  much 
good,  but  she  was  so  terribly  accurate  about  it 
as  to  make  Sylvia  say  that  she  was  like  a  public 
charity  that  had  been  brought  up  in  good  society. 

The  colonel  rose  as  she  spoke. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked.  "  Why 
are  ^rou  surprised  ?  " 

'•  What  have  you  been  saying  to  Sylvia, 
Richard?"  enquired  Miss  Wimpole,  not  moving. 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  hit  upon  a  ques 
tion  more  certain  to  embarrass  the  colonel.  He 
felt  the  difficulty  of  his  position  so  keenly  that, 
old  as  he  was,  a  faint  colour  rose  in  his  cheeks. 
No  answer  occurred  to  him,  and  he  hesitated. 

"  She  has  locked  herself  up  in  her  room,"  con 
tinued  Miss  Wimpole,  with  searching  severity, 
"  and  she  is  crying  as  though  her  heart  would 
break.  I  heard  her  sobbing  as  I  passed  the 
door,  and  she  would  not  let  me  in." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  the  colonel,  gravely. 

"  You  do  not  seem  much  concerned,"  retorted 


A   ROSE   OF  YESTERDAY  19 

his  sister.  "  I  insist  upon  knowing  what  is  the 
matter." 

"  Girls  often  cry,"  observed  Colonel  Wimpole, 
who  felt  obliged  to  say  something,  though  he 
did  not  at  all  know  what  to  say. 

"  Sylvia  does  not  often  cry,  Richard,  and  you 
know  it.  You  must  have  said  something  very 
unkind  to  her." 

"  I  hope  not,"  answered  the  colonel,  evasively. 

"  Then  why  is  she  sobbing  there,  all  by  her 
self?  I  should  like  you  to  answer  that  ques 
tion." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  cannot.  When  she 
is  herself  again  you  had  better  ask  her." 

Colonel  Wimpole  thought  this  good  diplo 
macy.  Since  he  meant  not  to  tell  his  sister 
the  truth,  and  was  incapable  of  inventing  a 
falsehood,  he  saw  no  means  of  escape  except 
by  referring  Miss  Wimpole  directly  to  Sylvia. 

"  Richard,"  said  the  maiden  lady,  impressively, 
"  I  am  surprised  at  you."  And  she  turned  away 
rather  stiffly.  "  I  thought  you  had  more  confi 
dence  in  me,"  she  added,  as  she  reached  the  door. 

But  Colonel  Wimpole  made  no  further  an 
swer,  for  he  saw  that  she  had  accepted  his 
silence,  which  was  all  he  wanted.  When  he 
was  quite  sure  that  she  was  in  her  own  room, 
he  went  and  got  his  hat  and  stick  and  slipped 
quietly  out  of  the  hotel. 


CHAPTER  II 

COLONEL  WIMPOLE  did  not  like  Lucerne,  and 
as  he  strolled  along  the  shady  side  of  the  street, 
he  unconsciously  looked  up  at  the  sky  or  down 
at  the  pavement  rather  than  at  the  houses  and 
the  people.  He  disliked  the  tourists,  the  build 
ings,  the  distant  scenery  and  the  climate,  and 
could  give  a  reason  for  each  separate  aversion. 
Excepting  the  old  tower,  which  was  very  much 
like  a  great  many  other  old  towers,  he  main 
tained  that  the  buildings  were  either  flat  and 
dull,  or  most  modernly  pretentious.  The  tour 
ists  were  tourists,  and  that  alone  condemned 
them  beyond  redemption.  The  climate  was  de 
testable,  and  he  was  sure  that  every  one  must 
think  so.  As  for  the  scenery,  with  its  prim 
lake,  its  tiresome  snow  mountains,  and  its  toy 
trees,  he  said  that  it  was  little  better  than  a 
perpetual  chromolithograph,  though  at  sunset 
it  occasionally  rose  to  the  dignity  of  a  trans 
parent  '  landscape '  lamp-shade.  The  colonel's 
views  of  places  were  not  wholly  without  preju 
dice.  Being  a  very  just  man,  where  men  and 

20 


A   ROSE   OP   YESTERDAY  21 

women  were  concerned,  he  allowed  himself  to 
be  as  unfair  as  he  chose  about  inanimate  things, 
from  snow  mountains  to  objects  of  art. 

It  was  the  pretension  of  Switzerland,  he  said, 
to  please  and  to  attract.  Since  it  neither  at 
tracted  him  nor  pleased  him,  he  could  not  see 
what  harm  there  could  be  in  saying  so.  The 
Rigi's  feelings  could  not  be  hurt  by  a  sharp 
remark,  nor  could  Mount  Pilatus  be  supposed 
to  be  sensitive.  He  never  abused  Switzerland 
where  any  Swiss  person  could  hear  him.  The 
same  things,  he  said,  were  true  of  objects  of  art. 
If  they  failed  to  please,  there  could  be  no  reason 
for  their  existence,  or  for  not  saying  so,  provided 
that  the  artist  were  not  present.  As  for  the  lat 
ter,  the  charitable  colonel  was  always  willing 
to  admit  that  he  had  done  his  best.  It  was 
gratuitous  to  suppose  that  any  man  should  wil 
fully  do  badly  what  he  could  do  well. 

The  colonel  strolled  slowly  through  the  back 
streets,  keeping  in  the  shade.  The  day  was  hot, 
and  he  felt  something  like  humiliation  at  having 
allowed  himself  to  yield  to  circumstances  and 
come  out  of  the  house  earlier  than  usual.  He 
would  certainly  not  have  acknowledged  that  he 
had  been  driven  from  the  hotel  by  the  fear  of 
his  sister's  curiosity,  but  he  would  have  faced  a 
hotter  sun  rather  than  be  obliged  to  meet  her 
inquisitive  questions  again. 


22  A   ROSE   OF   YESTEUDAY 

It  was  true  that,  being  alone,  lie  had  to  meet 
himself,  and  discuss  with  himself  the  painful 
little  scene  which  had  taken  place  that  after 
noon,  for  he  was  not  one  of  those  people  who  can 
get  rid  of  unpleasant  difficulties  simply  by  re 
fusing  to  think  about  them.  And  he  examined 
the  matter  carefully  as  he  went  along,  staring 
alternately  at  the  sky  and  at  the  pavement, 
while  his  stick  rang  sharply  in  time  with  his 
light  but  still  military  step.  He  did  not  see 
the  people  who  passed,  but  many  of  them  looked 
at  him,  and  noticed  his  face  and  figure,  and  set 
him  down  for  a  gentleman  and  an  old  soldier, 
as  he  was. 

At  first  sight  it  seemed  ridiculous  that  Sylvia 
should  be  in  love  with  him ;  then  it  seemed  sad, 
and  then  it  seemed  childish.  He  remembered 
the  tragedy  of  Ninon  de  1'Enclos  and  her  son, 
and  it  was  horrible  until  he  recalled  an  absurd 
story  of  a  short-sighted  young  man  who  had 
fallen  in  love  with  his  grandmother  because  his 
vanity  would  not  allow  him  to  wear  spectacles. 
At  this  recollection,  Colonel  "Wimpole  smiled  a 
little,  though  he  was  obliged  to  admit  that  Syl 
via's  eyes  had  always  been  very  good.  He 
wished,  for  a  moment,  that  he  were  quite  old 
already,  instead  of  being  only  on  the  edge  of  old 
age.  It  would  have  been  more  easy  to  laugh  at 
the  matter.  He  was  glad  that  he  was  not  ten 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  23 

years  younger,  for  in  that  case  he  might  have 
been  to  blame.  As  he  was  turning  into  the 
main  street,  he  caught  sight  of  his  own  reflexion 
in  the  big  plate  glass  window  of  a  shop.  He 
stopped  short,  with  a  painful  sensation. 

Had  the  image  been  that  of  a  stranger,  he 
should  have  judged  the  original  to  be  a  young 
man.  The  figure  he  saw  was  tall  and  straight 
and  active,  dressed  in  the  perfection  of  neatness 
and  good  taste.  The  straw  hat  shaded  the  upper 
part  of  the  face,  but  the  sunlight  caught  the  well- 
cut  chin  and  gilded  the  small,  closely  trimmed 
moustache. 

The  colonel  was  extremely  annoyed,  just  then, 
by  his  youthful  appearance.  He  stopped  and 
then  went  close  to  the  plate  glass  window,  till 
he  could  see  his  face  distinctly  in  it,  against  the 
shadows  of  the  darkened  shop.  He  was  posi 
tively  relieved  when  he  could  clearly  distinguish 
the  fine  lines  and  wrinkles  and  grey  hairs,  which 
he  saw  every  morning  in  his  mirror  when  he 
shaved.  It  was  the  sunshine  playing  with 
shadow  that  had  called  up  the  airy  reflexion  of 
his  departed  youth  for  a  moment.  Sylvia  could 
never  have  seen  him  as  he  had  appeared  to 
himself  in  the  window. 

He  looked  a  little  longer.  A  lady  in  black 
was  talking  with  the  shopkeeper,  and  a  short 
young  man  stood  beside  her.  Colonel  Wim- 


24  A   ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

pole's  fingers  tightened  suddenly  upon  the  fa 
miliar  silver  knob  of  his  stick,  his  face  grew  a 
little  pale,  and  he  held  his  breath. 

The  lady  turned  quietly,  walked  to  the  win 
dow,  followed  by  the  shopkeeper  and  the  young 
man,  and  pointed  to  a  miniature  which  lay 
amoncc  a  great  number  of  more  or  less  valuable 

O  O 

antiquities  and  objects  of  art,  all  of  them  ar 
ranged  so  as  to  show  them  to  an  undue  advan 
tage.  She  stood  quite  still,  looking  down  at 
the  thing  she  wanted,  and  listening  to  what  the 
shopkeeper  said.  The  colonel,  just  on  the  other 
side  of  the  thick  plate  glass,  could  hear  nothing, 
though  he  could  have  counted  the  heavy  lashes 
that  darkly  fringed  the  drooping  lids  as  the  lady 
kept  her  eyes  upon  the  miniature.  But  his  heart 
was  standing  still,  for  she  was  the  woman  he 
had  loved  so  long  and  well,  and  he  had  not 
known  that  she  was  to  pass  through  Lucerne. 
The  short  young  man  beside  her  was  her  son, 
and  Colonel  Wimpole  knew  him  also,  and  had 
seen  him  from  time  to  time  during  the  nineteen 
years  of  his  life.  But  he  scarcely  noticed  him 
now,  for  his  whole  being  was  intent  upon  the 
face  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

She  was  dark,  though  her  hair  had  never  been 
jet  black,  and  her  complexion  had  always  re 
minded  the  colonel  of  certain  beautiful  roses 
of  which  the  smooth  cream-coloured  leaves  are 


A   ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY  25 

very  faintly  tinged  with  a  warm  blush  that 
bears  no  relation  to  pink,  but  which  is  not  red 
either,  a  tint  without  which  the  face  was  like 
marble,  which  could  come  in  a  moment  but  was 
long  in  fading  as  a  northern  sunset,  and  which 
gave  wonderful  life  to  the  expression  while  it 
lasted.  The  lady's  features  were  bold  and  well 
cut,  but  there  were  sad  lines  of  lifelong  weari 
ness  about  the  curved  mouth  and  deep-set  eyes ; 
and  there  was  a  sort  of  patient  but  not  weak 
sadness  in  all  her  bearing,  the  look  of  those  who 
have  tired  but  have  not  yielded,  who  have  borne 
a  calm  face  against  a  great  trouble  from  without 
and  a  true  heart  against  a  strong  temptation 
from  within. 

She  was  neither  tall  nor  short,  neither  heavy 
nor  light  in  figure,  a  woman  of  good  and  strong 
proportion,  and  she  was  dressed  in  black,  though 
one  small  jewelled  ornament  and  a  coloured 
ribbon  in  her  hat  showed  that  she  was  not  in 
mourning. 

The  elderly  man  at  the  window  did  not  move 
as  he  watched  her,  for  he  felt  sure  that  she 
must  presently  look  up  and  meet  his  eyes.  Then 
he  would  go  in.  But  it  did  not  happen  just  in 
that  way,  for  her  son  recognized  him  first,  a 
dark  youth,  very  squarely  built,  with  a  heavy 
face  and  straight  eyebrows  that  met  over  his 
nose.  When  he  saw  the  colonel*  he  smiled, 


26  A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

lifted  his  hat,  and  spoke  to  his  mother.  The 
lady  started  perceptibly  and  seemed  to  press 
the  handle  of  her  black  parasol  to  her  side. 
Several  seconds  passed  after  that,  before  the 
fringed  lids  were  lifted,  and  the  two  looked  at 
each  other  fixedly  through  the  thick  glass.  A 
soft,  slow  smile  smoothed  and  illuminated  the 
lady's  face,  but  Colonel  Wimpole  felt  that  he 
was  paler  than  before,  and  his  lips  moved,  un 
consciously  pronouncing  a  name  which  he  had 
never  spoken  carelessly  during  two  and  twenty 
years.  Nor,  in  that  long  time,  had  he  ever  met 
Helen  Harmon  suddenly,  face  to  face,  without 
feeling  that  his  cheeks  grew  pale  and  that  his 
heart  stood  still  for  a  moment. 

But  his  pulse  beat  quite  regularly  again  when 
he  had  entered  the  shop  and  stood  before  her, 
extending  his  hand  to  meet  hers,  though  he  felt 
that  he  was  holding  out  his  heart  to  meet  her 
heart,  and  he  was  full  of  unexpected  happiness. 
So,  in  dim  winter  days,  the  sun  shines  out  in  a 
sudden  glory,  and  spring  is  in  the  air  before 
her  time,  for  an  hour ;  but  afterwards  it  is  cold 
again,  and  snow  falls  before  night.  Many  a  far 
glimpse  of  the  flower-time  had  gladdened  the 
colonel's  heart  before  now,  but  the  promised 
summer  had  never  come. 

The  two  stood  still  for  a  moment,  hand  in 
hand,  and  their  eyes  lingered  in  meeting,  just  a 


A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  27 

second  or  two  longer  than  if  they  had  been 
mere  friends.  That  was  all  that  a  stranger 
could  have  seen  to  suggest  that  Richard  Wim- 
pole  had  loved  Helen  Harmon  for  twenty-two 
years,  and  the  young  man  at  her  side  did  not 
even  notice  it.  He  shook  hands  with  the  colonel 
in  his  turn,  and  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  One  meets  everybody  in  Lucerne,"  he  ob 
served,  in  a  tactless  generalization. 

"  I  certainly  did  not  hope  to  meet  you,"  an 
swered  the  colonel,  smiling.  "It  is  true  that  the 
cross-roads  of  Europe  are  at  Lucerne  if  they  are 
anywhere.  My  sister  and  I  are  taking  Sylvia 
Strahan  home  from  Japan.  Of  course  we 
stopped  here." 

"  Oh,  of  course ! "  laughed  young  Harmon. 
"  Everybody  stops  here.  We  have  been  here 
ever  so  long,  on  our  way  to  Carlsbad,  I  believe." 

His  mother  glanced  at  him  nervously  before 
she  spoke,  as  though  she  were  not  sure  of  what 
he  might  say  next. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  buying  a  miniature,"  she 
said.  "  Will  you  look  at  it  for  me  ?  You  know 
all  about  these  things.  I  should  like  your 
advice." 

The  dealer's  face  fell  as  he  stood  in  the  back 
ground,  for  he  knew  the  colonel,  and  he  under 
stood  English.  But  as  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Harmon 
was  thinking  more  of  Wimpole  than  of  the 


28  A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

miniature ;  and  he,  when  he  answered,  was 
wondering  how  he  could  succeed  in  being  alone 
with  her  for  one  half-hour  —  one  of  those  little 
half-hours  on  which  he  lived  for  weeks  and 
months  after  they  were  past. 

Mrs.  Harmon's  manner  was  very  quiet,  and 
there  was  not  often  very  much  change  in  her 
expressions.  Her  laugh  was  low,  regretful, 
and  now  and  then  a  little  bitter.  Sometimes, 
when  one  might  have  expected  a  quick  answer, 
she  said  nothing  at  all,  and  then  her  features 
had  a  calm  immobility  that  was  almost  myste 
rious.  Only  now  and  then,  when  her  son  was 
speaking,  she  was  evidently  nervous,  and  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice  her  eyes  turned  quickly  and 
nervously  towards  his  face,  while  the  shadows 
about  the  corners  of  her  mouth  deepened  a  lit 
tle,  and  her  lips  set  themselves.  When  he  said 
anything  more  witless  than  usual,  she  was  ex 
traordinarily  skilful  and  quick  to  turn  his  say 
ing  to  sense  by  a  clear  explanation.  At  other 
times  she  generally  spoke  rather  slowly  and 
even  indolently,  as  though  nothing  mattered 
very  much.  Yet  she  was  a  very  sensible  woman, 
and  not  by  any  means  unpractical  in  daily  life. 
Her  tragedy,  if  it  were  one,  had  been  slow  and 
long  drawn  out. 

First,  a  love  which  had  been  real,  silent,  and 
so  altogether  unsuspected,  even  by  its  object, 


A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY  29 

that  Richard  Wiinpole  had  never  guessed  it  even 
to  this  day.  Then  a  marriage  thrust  upon  her 
by  circumstances,  and  which  she  had  accepted  at 
last  in  the  highest  nobility  of  honest  purpose. 
After  that,  much  suffering,  most  scrupulously 
covered  up  from  the  world,  and  one  moment  of 
unforgotten  horror.  There  was  a  crooked  scar 
on  her  forehead,  hidden  by  the  thick  hair  which 
she  drew  down  over  it.  When  she  was  angry 
it  turned  red,  though  there  was  no  other  change 
in  her  face.  Then  a  little  while,  and  her  hus 
band's  mind  had  gone.  Even  then  she  had  tried 
to  take  care  of  him,  until  it  had  been  hopeless, 
and  he  had  become  dangerous.  The  mercy  of 
death  seemed  far  from  him,  and  he  still  lived, 
for  he  was  very  strong.  And  all  along  there 
had  been  the  slowly  increasing  certainty  of  an 
other  misfortune.  Her  son,  her  only  child,  had 
been  like  other  children  at  first,  then  dull  and 
backward,  and  in  the  end,  as  compared  with 
grown  men,  deficient.  His  mind  had  not  de 
veloped  much  beyond  a  boy's ;  but  he  was 
unusually  strong,  he  had  learned  to  apply  his 
strength,  and  had  always  excelled  in  athletic 
sports.  One  might  have  been  deceived  at  first 
by  the  sharp  glance  of  his  eyes,  but  they  were 
not  bright  with  intelligence.  The  young  man's 
perfect  physical  health  alone  made  them  clear 
and  keen  as  a  young  animal's ;  but  what  they 


30  A    HOSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

saw  produced  little  reaction  of  understanding  or 
thought. 

Nor  was  that  all  that  Helen  Harmon  had 
borne.  There  was  one  other  thing,  hardest  of 
any  to  bear.  By  an  accident  she  had  learned  at 
last  that  Richard  Wimpole  had  loved  her,  and 
she  had  guessed  that  he  loved  her  still.  He  had 
fancied  her  indifferent  to  him ;  and  Harmon 
had  been  his  friend  in  young  days.  Harmon 
had  been  called  fast,  even  then,  but  not  vicious, 
and  he  had  been  rich.  Wimpole  had  stood  aside 
and  had  let  him  win,  being  diffident,  and  really 
believing  that  it  might  be  better  for  Helen  in 
the  end.  He  thought  that  she  could  make  any 
thing  she  chose  of  Harmon,  who  was  furiously 
in  love  with  her. 

So  the  two  had  made  the  great  mistake,  each 
meaning  to  do  the  very  best  that  could  be  done. 
But  when  Harmon  had  gone  mad  at  last,  and 
was  in  an  asylum  without  prospect  of  recovery, 
and  Helen  found  herself  the  administrator  of 
his  property  for  her  son,  it  had  been  necessary 
to  go  through  all  his  disordered  papers,  and  she 
had  found  a  letter  of  Wimpole' s  to  her  husband, 
written  long  ago.  Had  it  been  a  woman's  letter, 
she  would  have  burned  it  unread.  But  it  was 
a  duty  to  read  every  paper  which  might  bear 
upon  business  matters,  from  the  beginning,  and 
she  naturally  supposed  that  Harmon  must  have 


A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  31 

had  some  reason  for  keeping  this  one.  So  she 
read  it. 

It  had  been  written  in  the  early  days  of  her 
husband's  courtship.  "He,  too,  had  been  generous, 
then,  with  impulses  of  honour  in  which  there 
had  been,  perhaps,  something  of  vanity,  though 
they  had  impelled  him  to  do  right.  There  had 
been  some  conversation  between  the  friends,  and 
Harmon  had  found  out  that  Wimpole  loved 
Helen.  Not  being  yet  so  far  in  love  as  he  was 
later,  he  had  offered  to  go  away  and  let  the  young 
colonel  have  a  chance,  since  the  latter  had  loved 
her  first.  Then  Wimpole  had  written  this  letter 
which  she  found  twenty  years  later. 

It  was  simple,  grateful,  and  honourably  con 
ceived.  It  said  what  he  had  believed  to  be  the 
truth,  that  Helen  did  not  care  for  him,  that 
Harmon  was  quite  as  good  as  he  in  all  ways, 
and  much  richer,  and  it  finally  and  definitely 
refused  the  offer  of  i  a  chance.'  There  was 
nothing  tragic  about  it,  nor  any  hia;h-flown  word 

O  O  \J  O 

in  its  short,  clear  phrases.  But  it  had  decided 
three  lives,  and  the  finding  of  it  after  such  a  long 
time  hurt  Helen  more  than  anything  had  ever 
hurt  her  before. 

In  a  flash  she  saw  the  meaning  of  Wimpole's 
life,  and  she  knew  that  he  loved  her  still,  and 
had  always  loved  her,  though  in  all  their  many 
meetings,  throughout  those  twenty  years,  he  had 


32  A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

never  said  one  word  of  it  to  her.  In  one  sudden 
comprehension,  she  saw  all  his  magnificent  gen 
erosity  of  silence.  For  he  had  partly  known  how 
Harmon  had  treated  her.  Every  one  knew  some 
thing  of  it,  and  he  must  have  known  more  than 
any  one  except  the  lawyer  and  the  doctor  whom 
she  had  been  obliged  to  consult. 

And  yet,  in  that  quick  vision,  she  remembered, 
too,  that  she  had  never  complained  to  him,  nor 
ever  said  a  word  against  Harmon.  What  Wim- 
pole  knew,  beyond  some  matters  of  business  in 
which  he  had  helped  her,  he  had  learned  from 
others  or  had  guessed.  But  he  had  guessed 
much.  Little  actions  of  his,  under  this  broad 
light  of  truth,  showed  her  now  that  he  had  often 
understood  what  was  happening  when  she  had 
thought  him  wholly  in  ignorance. 

But  he,  on  his  side,  found  no  letter,  nor  any 
unexpected  revelation  of  her  secret ;  and  still, 
to  him,  she  seemed  only  to  have  changed  indif 
ference  for  friendship,  deep,  sincere,  lasting  and 
calm. 

She  kept  the  old  letter  two  days,  and  then, 
when  she  was  alone,  she  read  it  again,  and  her 
eyes  filled,  and  she  saw  her  hands  bringing  the 
discoloured  page  towards  her  lips.  Then  she 
started  and  looked  at  it,  and  she  felt  the  scar  on 
her  forehead  burning  hot  under  her  hair,  and  the 
temptation  was  great,  though  her  anger  at  her- 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  33 

self  was  greater.  Harmon  was  alive,  and  she 
was  a  married  woman,  though  he  was  a  mad 
man.  She  would  not  kiss  the  letter,  but  she 
laid  it  gently  upon  the  smouldering  embers,  and 
then  turned  away,  that  she  might  not  see  it 
curling  and  glowing  and  blackening  to  ashes  on 
the  coals.  That  night  a  note  from  the  director 
of  the  asylum  told  her  that  her  husband  was  in 
excellent  bodily  health,  without  improvement  in 
his  mental  condition.  It  was  dated  on  the  first 
of  the  month. 

After  that  she  avoided  the  colonel  for  some 
time,  but  when  she  met  him  her  face  was  again 
like  marble,  and  only  the  soft,  slow  smile  and 
the  steady,  gentle  voice  showed  that  she  was 
glad  to  see  him.  Two  years  had  passed  since 
then,  and  he  had  not  even  guessed  that  she 
knew. 

He  often  sought  her,  when  she  was  within 
reach  of  him,  but  their  meeting  to-day,  in  the 
fashionable  antiquary's  shop,  at  the  cross-roads 
of  Europe,  was  altogether  accidental,  unless  it 
were  brought  about  by  the  direct  intervention 
of  destiny.  But  who  believes  in  destiny  nowa 
days?  Most  people  smile  at  the  word  'fate,' 
as  though  it  had  no  meaning  at  all.  Yet  call 
'fate'  the  'chemistry  of  the  universe'  and  the 
sceptic's  face  assumes  an  expression  of  abject 
credulity,  because  the  term  has  a  modern  ring 


34  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

and  smacks  of  science.  What  is  the  difference 
between  the  two?  We  know  a  little  chemistry: 
we  can  get  something  like  the  perfume  of  spring 
violets  out  of  nauseous  petroleum,  and  a  flavour 
of  strawberries  out  of  stinking  coal-tar ;  but  we 
do  not  know  much  of  the  myriad  natural  laws 
by  which  our  bodies  are  directed  hither  and 
thither,  mere  atoms  in  the  everlasting  whirl 
pool  of  all  living  beings.  What  can  it  matter 
whether  we  call  those  rules  chemistry  or  fate  ? 
We  shall  submit  to  them  in  the  end,  with  our 
bodies,  though  our  souls  rebel  against  them  ever 
so  eternally.  The  things  that  matter  are  quite 
different,  and  the  less  they  have  to  do  with  our 
bodies,  the  better  it  is  for  ourselves. 

Colonel  Wimpole  looked  at  the  miniature  and 
saw  that  it  was  a  modern  copy  of  a  well-known 
French  one,  ingeniously  set  in  an  old  case,  to  fit 
which  it  had  perhaps  been  measured  and  painted. 
He  looked  at  the  dealer  quickly,  and  the  man 
expressed  his  despair  by  turning  up  his  eyes  a 
very  little,  while  he  bent  his  head  forward  and 
spread  out  his  palms,  abandoning  the  contest, 
for  he  recognized  the  colonel's  right  to  advise  a 
friend. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  asked  Mrs. 
Harmon. 

"  That  depends  entirely  on  what  you  mean  to 
do  with  it,  and  how  much  you  would  give  for 


A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  85 

it,"  answered  the  colonel,  \vlio  would  not  have 
let  her  buy  an  imitation  under  any  circum 
stances,  but  was  far  too  kind-hearted  to  ruin 
the  shopkeeper  in  her  estimation. 

"  I  rather  liked  it,"  wras  the  answer.  "  It 
was  for  myself.  There  is  something  about  the 
expression  that  pleases  me.  The  lady  looks  so 
blindly  happy  and  delighted  with  herself.  It 
is  a  cheerful  little  thing  to  look  at." 

The  colonel  smiled. 

"  Will  you  let  me  give  it  to  you  ? "  he  asked, 
putting  it  into  her  hand.  "  In  that  way  I  shall 
have  some  pleasure  out  of  it,  too." 

Mrs.  Harmon  held  it  for  a  moment,  and  looked 
at  him  thoughtfully,  asking  herself  whether 
there  was  any  reason  why  she  should  not  accept 
the  little  present.  He  was  not  rich,  but  she 
had  understood  from  his  first  answer  that  the 
thing  was  not  worth  much,  after  all,  and  she 
knew  that  he  would  not  pay  an  absurd  price 
for  it.  Her  fingers  closed  quietly  upon  it. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.     "  I  wanted  it." 

"  I  will  come  back  this  afternoon  and  pay 
for  it,"  said  the  colonel  to  the  dealer,  as  the 
three  went  out  of  the  shop  together  a  few 
moments  later. 

During  the  little  scene,  young  Harmon  had 
looked  on  sharply  and  curiously,  but  had  not 
spoken. 


36  A   HOSE   OP   YESTERDAY 

"How  are  those  things  made,  mother?"  he 
asked,  when  they  were  in  the  street. 

"What  things?"  asked  Mrs.  Harmon,  gently. 

"  Those  things  —  what  do  you  call  them  ? 
Like  what  Colonel  Wimpole  just  gave  you. 
How  are  they  made  ? " 

"  Oh,  miniatures  ?  They  are  painted  on  ivory 
with  very  fine  brushes." 

"  How  funny !  Why  do  they  cost  so  much 
money,  then?" 

His  questions  were  like  those  of  a  little  child, 
but  his  mother's  expression  did  not  change  as 
she  answered  him,  always  with  the  same  unvary 
ing  gentleness. 

"  People  have  to  be  very  clever  to  paint 
them,"  she  said.  "  That  is  why  the  very  good 
ones  are  worth  so  much.  It  is  like  a  good 
tailor,  my  dear,  who  is  paid  well  because  he 
makes  good  coats,  whereas  the  man  who  only 
knows  how  to  make  workmen's  jackets  earns 
very  little." 

"  That's  not  fair,"  said  young  Harmon.  "  It 
isn't  the  man's  fault  if  he  is  stupid,  is  it  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,  it  isn't  his  fault,  it's  his  mis 
fortune." 

It  took  the  young  man  so  long  to  understand 
this  that  he  said  nothing  more,  trying  to  think 
over  his  mother's  words,  and  getting  them  by 
heart,  for  they  pleased  him.  They  walked  along 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  37 

in  the  hot  sun  and  then  crossed  the  street  oppo 
site  the  Schweizerhof  to  reach  the  shade  of  the 
foolish-looking  trees  that  have  been  stuck  about 
like  Nuremberg  toys,  between  the  lake  and  the 
highway.  The  colonel  had  not  spoken  since 
they  had  left  the  shop. 

"  How  well  you  are  looking,"  he  said  sud 
denly,  when  young  Harmon  had  relapsed  into 
silence.  "  You  are  as  fresh  as  a  rose." 

"  A  rose  of  yesterday,"  said  Helen  Harmon, 
a  little  sadly. 

Quite  naturally,  Colonel  Wimpole  sighed  as 
he  walked  along  at  her  elbow ;  for  though  he 
did  not  know  that  she  had  ever  loved  him, 
he  remembered  the  letter  he  had  written  to 
the  man  she  had  afterwards  married,  and  he 
was  too  much  a  man  himself  not  to  believe  that 
all  might  have  been  different  if  he  had  not 
written  it. 

"Where  are  you  stopping?"  he  asked,  when 
they  had  gone  a  few  steps  in  silence. 

Mrs.  Harmon  named  a  quiet  hotel  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river. 

"  Close  to  us/'  observed  the  colonel,  just  as 
they  reached  the  new  bridge. 

They  were  half-way  across  when  an  exclama 
tion  from  young  Harmon  interrupted  their  con 
versation,  which  was,  indeed,  but  a  curiously 
stiff  exchange  of  dry  information  about  them- 


38  A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

selves  and  their  movements,  past,  planned,  and 
probable.  For  people  who  are  fond  of  each 
other  and  meet  rarely  are  first  of  all  anxious 
to  know  when  they  may  meet  again.  But  the 
boy's  cry  of  surprise  made  them  look  round. 

"  Jukes  !  "  he  exclaimed  loudly.  "  Jukes  !  " 
he  repeated,  more  softly  but  very  emphatically, 
as  though  solely  for  his  own  benefit. 

'  Jukes '  was  his  only  expression  when  pleased 
and  surprised.  No  one  knew  whether  he  had 
ever  heard  the  word,  or  had  invented  it,  and 
no  one  could  ever  discover  what  it  meant  nor 
from  what  it  was  derived.  It  seemed  to  be 
what  Germans  call  a  '  nature-sound,'  by  which 
he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings.  His  mother  hated 
it,  but  had  never  been  able  to  induce  him  to 
substitute  anything  else  in  its  place.  She  fol 
lowed  the  direction  of  his  eager  glance,  for  she 
knew  by  his  tone  that  he  wanted  what  he 
saw. 

She  expected  to  see  a  pretty  boat,  or  a  big 
dog,  or  a  gorgeous  posted  bill.  Archie  had  a 
passion  for  the  latter,  and  he  often  bought  them 
and  took  them  home  with  him  to  decorate  his 
own  particular  room.  He  loved  best  the  ones 
printed  in  violent  and  obtrusive  colours.  The 
gem  of  his  collection  was  a  purple  woman  on 
a  red  ground  with  a  wreath  of  yellow  flowers. 

But  Mrs.  Harmon  saw  neither  advertisement 


A    ROSE   OF    YESTELiDAY  39 

nor  dog,  nor  boat.  She  saw  Sylvia  Strahan. 
She  knew  the  girl  very  well,  and  knew  Miss 
Wimpole,  of  course.  The  two  were  walking 
along  on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge,  talking 
together.  Against  the  blaze  of  the  afternoon 
sun,  reflected  from  the  still  lake,  they  could 
hardly  have  recognized  the  colonel  and  the 
Harmons,  even  if  they  had  looked  that  way. 

"  It's  Sylvia,  mother,"  said  Archie,  glaring  at 
the  girl.  "But  isn't  she  grown!  And  isn't  she 
lovely?  Oh,  Ju-u-ukes  !  " 

His  heavy  lips  thickened  outwards  as  he 
repeated  the  mysterious  ejaculation,  and  there 
was  more  colour  than  usual  in  his  dark  face. 
He  was  but  little  older  than  Sylvia,  and  the  two 
had  played  together  as  small  children,  but  he 
had  never  shown  any  special  preference  for  her 
as  a  playmate.  What  struck  him,  now,  was 
evidently  her  beauty.  There  was  a  look  in 
his  eyes,  and  a  sort  of  bristling  of  the  meeting 
eyebrows  that  reminded  Helen  of  his  father, 
and  her  white  lids  quivered  for  an  instant  at 
the  recollection,  while  she  felt  a  little  chill  run 
through  her. 

The  colonel  also  saw. 

"  Shall  we  cross  over  and  speak  to  them  ? " 
he  asked  in  a  low  voice.  "  Or  shall  we  just 
go  on?" 

"  Let  us  go  on,"  answered  Helen.     "  I  will 


40  A    HOSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

go  and  see  them  later.  Besides,  we  have  passed 
them  now.  Let  us  go  on  and  get  into  the 
shade  ;  it  is  dreadfully  hot  here." 

"  Won't  you  stop  and  speak  to  them,  mother?" 
asked  Archie  Harmon,  in  a  tone  of  deep  disap 
pointment.  "  Why,  we  have  not  seen  them  for 
ever  so  long ! " 

"  We  shall  see  them  by  and  by,"  answered 
his  mother.  "  It's  too  hot  to  go  back  now." 

The  young  man  turned  his  head  and  lagged 
a  little,  looking  after  the  girl's  graceful  figure, 
till  he  stumbled  awkwardly  against  a  curbstone. 
But  he  did  not  protest  any  more.  In  his  dull 
way,  he  worshipped  his  mother  as  a  superior 
being,  and  hitherto  he  had  always  obeyed  her 
with  a  half-childish  confidence.  His  arrested 
intelligence  still  saw  her  as  he  had  seen  her 
ten  years  earlier,  as  a  sort  of  high  and  pro 
tecting  wisdom  incarnate  for  his  benefit,  able 
to  answer  all  questions  and  to  provide  him 
with  unlimited  pocket-money  wherewith  to  buy 
bright-coloured  posters  and  other  gaudy  things 
that  attracted  him.  Up  to  a  certain  point,  he 
could  be  trusted  to  himself,  for  he  was  almost 
as  far  from  being  an  idiot  as  he  was  from  being 
a  normally  thinking  man.  He  was  about  as 
intelligent  and  about  as  well  informed  as  a 
rather  unusually  dull  schoolboy  of  twelve  years 
or  thereabouts.  He  did  not  lose  his  way  in  the 


A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  41 

streets,  nor  drop  his  money  out  of  his  pockets, 
and  he  could  speak  a  little  French  and  German 
which  he  had  learned  from  a  foreign  nurse, 
enough  to  buy  a  ticket  or  order  a  meal.  But 
he  had  scarcely  outgrown  toys,  and  his  chief 
delight  was  to  listen  to  the  stories  his  mother 
told  him.  She  was  not  very  inventive,  and  she 
told  the  same  old  ones  year  after  year.  They 
always  seemed,  to  be  new  to  him.  He  could 
remember  faces  and  names  fairly  well,  and  had 
an  average  recollection  of  events  in  his  own 
life ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  teach  him  any 
thing  from  books,  his  handwriting  was  the 
heavy,  unformed  scrawl  of  a  child,  and  his 
spelling  was  one  long  disaster. 

So  far,  at  least,  Helen  had  found  only  his 
intellectual  deficiency  to  deal  with,  and  it  was 
at  once  a  perpetual  shame  to  her  and  a  cause 
of  perpetual  sorrow  and  sympathy.  But  he 
was  affectionate  and  docile  enough,  not  cruel  as 
some  such  beings  are,  and  certainly  not  vicious, 
so  far  as  she  could  see.  Dull  boys  are  rarely 
mischievous,  though  they  are  sometimes  cruel, 
for  mischief  implies  an  imagination  which  dul- 
ness  does  not  possess. 

Archie  Harmon  had  one  instinct,  or  quality, 
which  redeemed  him  from  total  insignificance 
and  raised  him  above  the  level  of  an  amiable 
and  harmless  animal.  He  had  a  natural  horror 


42  A    HOSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

of  taking  life,  and  felt  the  strongest  possible  im 
pulse  to  save  it  at  any  risk  to  himself.  His 
mother  was  never  quite  sure  whether  he  made 
any  distinction  between  the  value  of  existence  to 
a  man,  and  its  worth  to  an  animal,  or  even  to 
an  insect.  He  seemed  not  to  connect  it  with  its 
possessor,  but  to  look  upon  it  as  something  to  be 
preserved  for  its  own  sake,  under  all  circum 
stances,  wherever  it  manifested  itself.  At  ordi 
nary  times  he  was  sufficiently  cautious  for  his 
own  safety,  and  would  hesitate  to  risk  a  fall  or 
scratch  in  climbing,  where  most  boys  would  have 
been  quite  unaware  of  such  possibilities.  But  at 
the  sight  of  any  living  thing  in  danger,  a  reck 
less  instinct  to  save  it  took  possession  of  him, 
and  his  sluggish  nature  was  roused  to  sudden 
and  direct  activity,  without  any  intermediate 
process  of  thought.  He  had  again  and  again 
given  proof  of  courage  that  might  have  shamed 
most  men.  He  had  saved  a  child  from  drown 
ing  in  the  North  River,  diving  after  it  from  a 
ferryboat  running  at  full  speed,  and  he  had 
twice  stopped  bolting  horses  —  once,  a  pair  with 
a  heavy  brougham  in  the  streets  of  New  York, 
and  once,  in  the  park,  a  dog-cart  driven  by  a 
lady.  On  the  first  of  these  two  occasions  he 
had  been  a  good  deal  cut  and  bruised,  and 
had  narrowly  escaped  with  his  life.  His  mother 
was  too  brave  not  to  be  proud  of  his  deeds,  but 


A    HOSE    OF    YESTERDAY  43 

with  each  one  her  fears  for  his  own  daily  safety 
increased. 

He  was  never  violent,  but  he  occasionally 
showed  a  strength  that  surprised  her,  though 
he  never  seemed  to  care  about  exhibiting  it. 
Once,  she  had  fallen  and  hurt  her  foot,  and  he 
had  carried  her  up  many  stairs  like  a  child. 
After  that,  she  had  felt  now  and  then  as  men 
must  feel  who  tame  wild  beasts  and  control  them. 

He  worshipped  her,  and  she  saw  that  he 
looked  with  a  sort  of  pity  on  other  women, 
young  or  old,  as  not  worthy  to  be  compared 
with  her  in  any  way.  She  had  begun  to  hope 
that  she  might  be  spared  the  humiliation  of  ever 
seeing  him  in  love,  despised  or  pitied,  as  the  case 
might  be,  by  some  commonplace,  pretty  girl  with 
white  teeth  and  pink  cheeks.  She  feared  that, 
and  she  feared  lest  he  should  some  day  taste 
drink,  and  follow  his  father's  ways  to  the  same 
ruin.  But  as  yet  he  had  been  like  a  child. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  she  shuddered  when, 
as  he  looked  at  Sylvia  Strahan,  she  saw  some 
thing  in  his  face  which  had  never  been  there 
before  and  heard  that  queer  word  of  his  uttered 
in  such  a  tone.  She  wondered  whether  Colonel 
Wimpole  had  heard  and  seen,  too,  and  for  some 
time  the  three  walked  on  in  silence. 

"Will  you  come  in?"  asked  Mrs.  Harmon,  as 
they  reached  the  door  of  her  hotel. 


44  A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

The  colonel  followed  her  to  her  little  sitting- 
room,  and  Archie  disappeared ;  for  the  conversa 
tion  of  those  whom  he  still,  in  his  own  thoughts, 
regarded  as  '  grown-up  people  '  wearied  him  be 
yond  bearing. 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Colonel  Wimpolc,  when 
they  were  alone,  '"'I  am  so  very  glad  to  see  you!  " 

He  held  one  of  her  hands  in  his  while  he  spoke 
the  conventional  words,  his  eyes  were  a  little 
misty,  and  there  was  a  certain  tone  in  his  voice 
which  no  one  but  Helen  Harmon  had  ever  heard. 

"I  am  glad,  too,"  she  said  simply,  and  she 
drew  away  her  hand  from  his  with  a  sort  of 
deprecation  which  he  only  half  understood,  for 
he  only  knew  that  half  of  the  truth  which  was 
in  himself. 

They  sat  down  as  they  had  sat  many  a  time 
in  their  lives,  at  a  little  distance  from  each 
other,  and  just  so  that  each  had  to  turn  the 
head  a  little  to  face  the  other.  It  was  easier 
to  talk  in  that  position  because  there  was  a 
secret  between  them,  besides  many  things  wrhich 
were  not  secrets,  but  of  which  they  did  not 
wish  to  speak. 

"It  is  terribly  long  since  wre  last  met,"  said 
the  colonel.  "Do  you  remember?  I  went  to 
see  you  in  New  York  the  day  before  we  started 
for  Japan.  You  had  just  come  back  from  the 
country,  and  your  house  was  in  confusion." 


A   KOSE   OF   YESTERDAY  45 

"  Oh  yes,  I  remember,"  replied  Mrs.  Harmon. 
"  Yes,  it  is  terribly  long ;  but  nothing  is 
changed." 

"Nothing?"  The  colonel  meant  to  ask  her 
about  Harmon,  and  she  understood. 

"Nothing,"  she  answered  gravely.  "There 
was  no  improvement  when  the  doctor  wrote,  on 
the  first  of  last  month.  I  shall  have  another 
report  in  a  day  or  two.  But  they  are  all  exactly 
alike.  He  will  just  live  on,  as  he  is  now,  to  the 
end  of  his  life." 

"To  the  end  of  his  life,"  repeated  the  colonel, 
in  a  low  voice,  and  the  two  turned  their  heads 
and  looked  at  each  other. 

"He  is  in  perfect  health,"  said  Mrs.  Harmon, 
looking  away  again. 

She  drew  out  a  long  hat-pin  and  lifted  her 
hat  from  her  head  with  both  hands,  for  it  was 
a  hot  afternoon,  and  she  had  come  into  the 
sitting-room  as  she  was.  The  colonel  noticed 
how  neatly  and  carefully  she  did  the  thing.  It 
seemed  almost  unnecessary  to  do  it  so  slowly. 

"It  is  so  hot,"  she  said,  as  she  laid  the  hat 
on  the  table. 

She  was  pale  now,  perhaps  with  the  heat  of 
which  she  complained,  and  he  saw  how  tired  her 
face  was. 

"Is  this  state  of  things  really  to  go  on?"  he 
asked  suddenly. 


46  A   KOSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

She  moved  a  little,  but  did  not  look  at  him. 

"I  am  not  discontented,"  she  said.  "I  am 
not — not  altogether  unhappy." 

"Why  should  you  not  be  released  from  it 
all?"  asked  the  colonel. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  suggested 
such  a  possibility,  and  she  looked  away  from  him. 

"  It  is  not  as  if  it  had  all  been  different 
before  he  lost  his  mind,"  he  went  on,  seeing  that 
she  did  not  answer  at  once.  "  It  is  not  as  if  you 
had  not  had  fifty  good  reasons  for  a  divorce  be 
fore  he  finally  went  mad.  What  is  the  use  of 
denying  that  ?  " 

"Please  do  not  talk  about  a  divorce,"  said 
Mrs.  Harmon,  steadily. 

"  Please  forgive  me,  if  I  do,  my  dear  friend," 
returned  the  colonel,  almost  hotly;  for  he  was 
suddenly  convinced  that  he  was  right,  and  when 
he  was  right  it  was  hard  to  stop  him.  "  You 
have  spent  half  your  life  in  sacrificing  all  of 
yourself.  Surely  you  have  a  right  to  the  other 
half.  There  is  not  even  the  excuse  that  you 
might  still  do  him  some  good  by  remaining  his 
wife  in  name.  His  mind  is  gone,  and  he  could 
not  recognize  you  if  he  saw  you." 

"What  should  I  gain  by  such  a  step,  then?" 
asked  Helen,  turning  upon  him  rather  suddenly. 
"  Do  you  think  I  would  marry  again  ?  "  There 
was  an  effort  in  her  voice.  "  I  hate  to  talk  in 


A   HOSE   OF   YESTERDAY  47 

this  way,  for  I  detest  the  idea  of  divorce,  and 
the  principle  of  it,  and  all  its  consequences.  I 
believe  it  is  going  to  be  the  ruin  of  half  the 
world,  in  the  end.  It  is  a  disgrace,  in  whatever 
way  you  look  at  it !  " 

"  A  large  part  of  the  world  does  not  seem  to 
think  so,"  observed  the  colonel,  rather  surprised 
by  her  outbreak,  though  in  any  case  excepting 
her  own  he  might  have  agreed  with  her. 

"  It  would  be  better  if  the  whole  world 
thought  so,"  she  observed  with  energy.  "Do 
you  know  what  divorce  means  in  the  end  ?  It 
means  the  abolition  of  marriage  laws  alto 
gether  ;  it  means  reducing  marriage  to  a  mere 
experiment  which  may  last  a  few  days,  a  few 
weeks,  or  a  few  months,  according  to  the  people 
who  try  it.  There  are  men  and  women,  already, 
who  have  been  divorced  and  married  again  half 
a  dozen  times.  Before  the  next  generation  is 
old  that  will  be  the  rule  and  not  the  exception." 

"Dear  me  !  "  exclaimed  Colonel  Wimpole.  "  I 
hope  not !  " 

"  I  know  you  agree  with  me,"  said  Mrs.  Har 
mon,  with  conviction.  "  You  only  argue  on  the 
other  side  because  —  "  She  stopped  short. 

"Why?"  He  did  not  look  at  her  as  he 
asked  the  question. 

"  Because  you  are  my  best  friend,"  she  an 
swered,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "  and  be- 


48  A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

cause  you  have  got  it  into  your  head  that  I 
should  be  happier.  I  cannot  imagine  why.  It 
would  make  no  difference  at  all  in  my  life  — 

55 

now. 

The  last  word  fell  from  her  lips  with  a  regret 
ful  tone  and  lingered  a  little  on  the  air  like  the 
sad  singing  of  a  bell's  last  note,  not  broken  by 
a  following  stroke.  But  the  colonel  was  not 
satisfied. 

"  It  may  make  all  the  difference,  even  now," 
he  said.  "  Suppose  that  Harmon  were  to  re 
cover." 

Helen  did  not  start,  for  the  thought  had  been 
long  familiar  to  her,  but  she  pressed  her  lips 
together  a  little  and  let  her  head  rest  against 
the  back  of  her  chair,  half  closing  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  possible,"  continued  the  colonel.  "  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  doctors  are  not  always 
right,  and  there  is  nothing  about  which  so  little 
is  really  certain  as  insanity." 

"I  do  not  think  it  is  possible." 

"  But  it  is,  nevertheless.  Imagine  what  it 
would  be,  if  you  began  to  hear  that  he  was 
better  and  better,  and  finally  well,  and,  at  last, 
that  there  was  no  reason  for  keeping  him  in 
confinement." 

Mrs.  Harmon's  eyes  were  quite  closed  now,  as 
she  leaned  back.  It  was  horrible  to  her  to  wish 
that  her  husband  might  remain  mad  till  he  died, 


A  ROSE   OP   YESTERDAY  49 

yet  she  thought  of  what  her  own  life  must  be  if 
he  should  recover.  She  was  silent,  fighting  it 
out  in  her  heart.  It  was  not  easy.  It  was  hard 
even  to  see  what  she  should  wish,  for  every 
human  being  has  a  prime  right  of  self-preser 
vation,  against  which  no  argument  avails,  save 
that  of  a  divinely  good  and  noble  cause  to  be 
defended.  Yet  the  moral  wickedness  of  pray 
ing  that  Harmon  might  be  a  madman  all  the 
rest  of  his  life  frightened  her.  Throughout 
twenty  years  and  more  she  had  faced  suffer 
ing  and  shame  without  flinching  and  without 
allowing  herself  one  thought  of  retaliation  or 
hatred.  She  had  been  hardened  to  the  struggle 
and  was  not  a  woman  to  yield,  if  it  should  begin 
again,  but  she  shrank  from  it,  now,  as  the  best 
and  bravest  may  shrink  at  the  thought  of  tort 
ure,  though  they  would  not  groan  in  slow  fire. 

"  Just  think  what  it  might  be,"  resumed 
Colonel  Wimpole.  "  Why  not  look  the  facts 
in  the  face  while  there  is  time  ?  If  he  were  let 
out,  he  would  come  back  to  you,  and  you  would 
receive  him,  for  I  know  what  you  are.  You 
would  think  it  right  to  take  him  back  because 
you  promised  long  ago  to  love,  honour,  and  obey 
him.  To  love,  to  honour,  and  to  obey  —  Henry 
Harmon ! " 

The  colonel's  steady  grey  eyes  flashed  for  an 
instant,  and  his  gentle  voice  was  suddenly  thick 


50  A   ROSE   OP   YESTERDAY 

and  harsh  as  he  pronounced  the  last  words. 
They  meant  terribly  much  to  the  woman  who 
heard  them,  and  in  her  distress  she  leaned  for 
ward  in  her  seat  and  put  up  her  hands  to  her 
temples,  as  though  she  had  pain,  gently  pushing 
back  the  heavy  hair  she  wore  so  low  on  her 
forehead.  Wimpole  had  never  seen  her  so  much 
moved,  and  the  gesture  itself  was  unfamiliar  to 
him.  He  did  not  remember  to  have  ever  seen 
her  touch  her  hair  with  her  hands,  as  some 
women  do.  He  watched  her  now,  as  he  con 
tinued  to  speak. 

"  You  did  all  three,"  he  said.  "  You  hon 
oured  him,  you  loved  him,  and  you  obeyed  him 
for  a  good  many  years.  But  he  neither  loved, 
nor  honoured,  nor  cherished  you.  I  believe  that 
is  the  man's  part  of  the  contract,  is  it  not  ? 
And  marriage  is  always  called  a  contract,  is  it 
not?  Now,  in  any  contract,  both  parties  nrist 
do  what  they  have  promised,  so  that  if  one 
party  fails,  the  other  is  not  bound.  Is  not 
that  true  ?  And,  Heaven  knows,  Harmon  failed 
badly  enough ! " 

"  Don't !  Please  don't  take  it  that  way !  No, 
no,  no !  Marriage  is  not  a  contract ;  it  is  a 
bond,  a  vow  —  something  respected  by  man  be 
cause  it  is  sacred  before  God.  If  Henry  failed 
a  thousand  times  more,  I  should  be  just  as  much 
bound  to  keep  my  promise." 


A   EOSE   OF   YESTERDAY  51 

Her  head  sank  still  more  forward,  and  her 
hands  pushed  her  hair  straight  back  from  the 
temples. 

"You  will  never  persuade  me  of  that,"  an 
swered  the  colonel.  "  You  will  never  make  me 
believe  —  "  He  stopped  short,  for  as  he  watched 
her,  he  saw  what  he  had  never  seen  before,  a 
deep  and  crooked  scar  high  on  her  forehead. 
"What  is  that?"  he  asked  suddenly,  leaning 
towards  her,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ugly  mark. 

She  started,  stared  at  him,  dropping  her  hands, 
realized  what  he  had  seen,  and  then  instantly 
turned  away.  He  could  see  that  her  fingers 
trembled  as  she  tried  to  draw  her  hair  down 
again.  It  was  not  like  her  to  be  vain,  and  he 
guessed  at  once  that  she  had  some  reason  other 
than  vanity  for  hiding  the  old  wound. 

"What  is  that  scar?"  he  asked  again,  de 
termined  to  have  an  answer.  "I  never  saw  it 
before." 

"It  is  a  —  I  was  hurt  long  ago  — "  She 
hesitated,  for  she  did  not  know  how  to  lie. 

"Not  so  very  long  ago,"  said  the  colonel.  "I 
know  something  about  scars,  and  that  one  is  not 
many  years  old.  It  does  not  look  as  though  you 
had  got  it  in  a  fall  either.  Besides,  if  you  had, 
you  would  not  mind  telling  me,  would  you  ?  " 

"  Please  don't  ask  me  about  it !  I  cannot  tell 
you  about  it." 


52  A   HOSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

The  colonel's  face  was  hardening  quickly. 
The  lines  came  out  in  it  stern  and  straight,  as 
when,  at  evening,  a  sudden  frost  falls  upon  a 
still  water,  and  the  first  ice-needles  shoot  out, 
clear  and  stiff.  Then  came  the  certainty,  and 
Wimpole  looked  as  he  had  looked  long  ago  in 
battle. 

"  Harmon  did  that,"  he  said  at  last,  and  the 
wrathful  thought  that  followed  was  not  the  less 
fierce  because  it  was  unspoken. 

Helen's  hands  shook  now,  for  no  one  had  ever 
known  how  she  had  been  wounded.  But  she 
said  nothing,  though  she  knew  that  her  silence 
meant  her  assent.  Wimpole  rose  suddenly, 
straight  as  a  rifle,  and  walked  to  the  window, 
turning  his  back  upon  her.  He  could  say 
things  there,  under  his  breath,  which  she  could 
not  understand,  and  he  said  them,  earnestly. 

"  He  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing,"  Helen 
said,  rather  unsteadily. 

The  colonel  turned  on  his  heels  at  the  window, 
facing  her,  and  his  lips  still  moved  slowly,  though 
no  words  came.  Helen  looked  at  him  and  knew 
that  she  was  glad  of  his  silent  anger.  Not  real 
izing  what  she  was  thinking  of,  she  wondered 
what  sort  of  death  Harmon  might  have  died  if 
Richard  Wimpole  had  seen  him  strike  her  to  the 
ground  with  a  cut-glass  decanter.  For  a  moment 
the  cloak  of  mercy  and  forgiveness  was  rent  from 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  53 

head  to  heel.  The  colonel  would  have  killed 
the  man  with  those  rather  delicate  looking  hands 
of  his,  talking  to  him  all  the  time  in  a  low  voice. 
That  was  what  she  thought,  and  perhaps  she 
was  not  very  far  wrong.  Even  now,  it  was  well 
for  Harmon  that  he  was  safe  in  his  asylum  on 
the  other  side  of  an  ocean. 

It  was  some  time  before  Wimpole  could  speak. 
Then  he  came  and  stood  before  Helen. 

"You  will  stay  a  few  days?  You  do  not  mean 
to  go  away  at  once  ? "  he  said,  with  a  question. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I  think  I  shall  go  away  now,  and 
come  and  see  you  again  later." 

He  took  her  hand  rather  mechanically  and 
left  the  room.  But  she  understood  and  was 
grateful. 


CHAPTER   III 

WHEN  Archie  Harmon  disappeared  and  left 
the  colonel  and  his  mother  together,  she  sup 
posed  that  he  had  gone  to  his  room  to  sleep, 
for  he  slept  a  great  deal,  or  to  amuse  himself 
after  his  fashion,  and  she  did  not  ask  him  where 
he  was  going.  She  knew  what  his  favourite 
amusement  was,  though  he  did  his  best  to  keep 
it  a  secret  from  her. 

There  was  a  certain  mysterious  box,  which  he 
had  always  owned,  and  took  everywhere  with 
him,  and  of  which  he  always  had  the  key  in  his 
pocket.  It  took  up  a  good  deal  of  space,  but 
he  could  never  be  persuaded  to  leave  it  behind 
when  they  went  abroad. 

To-day  he  went  to  his  room,  as  usual,  locked 
the  door,  took  off  his  coat,  and  got  the  box  out 
of  a  corner.  Then  he  sat  down  on  the  floor  and 
opened  it.  He  took  out  some  child's  building- 
blocks,  some  tin  soldiers,  much  the  worse  for 
wear,  for  he  was  ashamed  to  buy  new  ones, 
and  a  small  and  gaudily  painted  tin  cart,  in 
which  an  impossible  lady  and  gentleman  of 

54 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  55 

papier-mache,  dressed  in  blue,  grey,  and  yel 
low,  sat  leaning  back  with  folded  arms  and 
staring,  painted  eyes.  There  were  a  few  other 
toys  besides,  all  packed  away  with  considerable 
neatness,  for  Archie  was  not  slovenly. 

He  sat  cross-legged  on  the  floor,  a  strong 
grown  man  of  nearly  twenty  years,  and  began 
to  play  with  his  blocks.  His  eyes  fixed  them 
selves  on  his  occupation,  as  he  built  up  a  little 
gateway  with  an  arch  and  set  red-legged  French 
soldiers  on  each  side  of  it  for  sentinels.  He 
had  played  the  same  game  a  thousand  times 
already,  but  the  satisfaction  had  not  diminished. 
One  day  in  a  hotel  he  had  forgotten  to  lock  the 
door,  and  his  mother  had  opened  it  by  mistake, 
thinking  it  was  that  of  her  own  room.  Before 
he  could  look  round  she  had  shut  it  again,  but 
she  had  seen,  and  it  had  been  like  a  knife-thrust. 
She  kept  his  secret,  but  she  lost  heart  from  that 
day.  He  was  still  a  child,  and  was  always  to 
be  one. 

Yet  there  was  perhaps  something  more  of 
intelligence  in  the  childish  play  than  she  had 
guessed.  He  was  lacking  in  mind,  but  not  an 
idiot ;  he  sometimes  said  and  did  things  which 
were  certainly  far  beyond  the  age  of  toys.  Pos 
sibly  the  attraction  lay  in  a  sort  of  companion 
ship  which  he  felt  in  the  society  of  the  blocks, 
and  the  tin  soldiers,  and  the  little  papier-mache 


56  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

lady  and  gentleman.  He  felt  that  they  under 
stood  what  he  meant  and  would  answer  him  if 
they  could  speak,  and  would  expect  no  more 
of  him  than  he  could  give.  Grown  people 
always  seemed  to  expect  a  great  deal  more, 
and  looked  at  him  strangely  when  he  called 
Berlin  the  capital  of  Austria  and  asked  why 
Brutus  and  Cassius  murdered  Alexander  the 
Great.  The  toy  lady  and  gentleman  were  quite 
satisfied  if  their  necks  were  not  broken  in  the 
cunningly  devised  earthquake  which  always 
brought  the  block  house  down  into  a  heap 
when  he  had  looked  at  it  long  enough  and 
was  already  planning  another. 

Besides,  he  did  all  his  best  thinking  among 
his  toys,  and  had  invented  ways  of  working  out 
results  at  which  he  could  not  possibly  have 
arrived  by  a  purely  mental  process.  He  could 
add  and  subtract,  for  instance,  with  the  bits  of 
wood,  and,  by  a  laborious  method,  he  could  even 
do  simple  multiplication,  quite  beyond  him  with 
paper  and  pencil.  Above  all,  he  could  name  the 
tin  soldiers  after  people  he  had  met,  and  make 
them  do  anything  he  pleased,  by  a  sort  of  rudi 
mentary  theatrical  instinct  that  was  not  alto 
gether  childish. 

To-day  he  built  a  house  as  usual,  and,  as 
usual,  after  some  reflexion  as  to  the  best  means 
of  ruining  it  by  taking  out  a  single  block,  he 


A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY  57 

pulled  it  down  with  a  crash.  But  he  did  not 
at  once  begin  another.  On  the  contrary,  he  sat 
looking  at  the  ruins  for  a  long  time  in  a  rather 
disconsolate  way,  and  then  all  at  once  began  to 
pack  all  the  toys  into  the  box  again. 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  matters,"  he  said  aloud. 
"  But  of  course  Sylvia  would  think  me  a  baby  if 
she  saw  me  playing  with  blocks." 

And  he  made  haste  to  pack  them  all  away, 
locking  the  box  and  putting  the  key  into  his 
pocket.  Then  he  went  and  looked  through  the 
half-closed  blinds  into  the  sunny  street,  and  he 
could  see  the  new  bridge  not  far  away. 

"I  don't  care  what  mother  thinks!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "  I'm  going  to  find  her  again." 

He  opened  his  door  softly,  and  a  moment 
later  he  was  in  the  street,  walking  rapidly 
towards  the  bridge.  At  a  distance  he  looked 
well.  It  was  only  when  quite  near  to  him  that 
one  was  aware  of  an  undefinable  ungainliness 
in  his  face  and  figure  —  something  blank  and 
meaningless  about  him,  that  suggested  a  heavy 
wooden  doll  dressed  in  good  clothes.  In  mili 
tary  countries  one  often  receives  that  impres 
sion.  A  fine-looking  infantry  soldier,  erect, 
broad  shouldered,  bright  eyed,  spotless,  and 
scrupulously  neat,  comes  marching  along  and 
excites  one's  admiration  for  a  moment.  Then, 
when  close  to  him,  one  misses  something  which 


58  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

ought  to  go  with  such  manly  bearing.  The  fel 
low  is  only  a  country  lout,  perhaps,  hardly  able 
to  read  or  write,  and  possessed  of  an  intelligence 
not  much  beyond  the  highest  development  of 
instinct.  Drill,  exercise,  and  the  fear  of  black 
bread  and  water  under  arrest,  have  produced  a 
fine  piece  of  military  machinery,  but  they  could 
not  create  a  mind,  nor  even  the  appearance  of 
intelligence,  in  the  wooden  face.  In  a  year  or 
two  the  man  will  lay  aside  his  smart  uniform 
and  go  back  to  the  class  whence  he  came.  One 
may  give  iron  the  shape  and  general  look  of 
steel,  but  not  the  temper  and  the  springing 
quality. 

Archie  Harmon  looked  straight  ahead  of  him 
as  he  crossed  the  bridge  and  followed  the  long 
street  that  runs  beside  the  water,  past  the 
big  hotels  and  the  gaudy  awnings  of  the  pro- 
vincially  smart  shops.  At  first  he  only  looked 
along  the  pavement,  searching  among  the  many 
people  who  passed.  Then  as  he  remembered 
how  Colonel  Wimpole  had  seen  him  through  a 
shop  window,  he  stopped  before  each  of  the  big 
plate  glass  ones  and  peered  curiously  into  the 
shadows  within. 

At  last,  in  a  milliner's,  he  saw  Sylvia  and 
Miss  Wimpole,  and  his  heavy  face  grew  red, 
and  his  eyes  glared  oddly  as  he  stood  motionless 
outside,  under  the  awning,  looking  in.  His 


A  EOSE  OP   YESTERDAY  59 

lips  went  out  a  little,  as  lie  pronounced  his  own 
especial  word  very  softly. 

"  Jukes ! " 

He  stood  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the 
other,  like  a  boy  at  a  pastry  cook's,  hesitating, 
while  devouring  with  his  eyes.  He  could  see 
that  Sylvia  was  buying  a  hat.  She  turned  a 
little  each  way  as  she  tried  it  on  before  a  big 
mirror,  putting  up  her  hands  and  moving  her 
arms  in  a  way  that  showed  all  the  lines  of  her 
perfect  figure. 

Archie  went  in.  He  had  been  brought  up  by 
his  mother,  and  chiefly  by  women,  and  he  had 
none  of  that  shyness  about  entering  a  women's 
establishment,  like  a  milliner's,  which  most  boys 
and  many  men  feel  so  strongly.  He  walked  in 
boldly  and  spoke  as  soon  as  he  was  within 
hearing. 

"  Miss  Sylvia  !  I  say !  Miss  Sylvia  —  don't 
you  know  me  ?  " 

The  question  was  a  little  premature,  for  Syl 
via  had  barely  caught  sight  of  him  when  he 
asked  it.  When  she  had  recognized  him,  she 
did  not  look  particularly  pleased. 

"  It's  poor  Archie  Harmon,  my  dear,"  said 
Miss  Wimpole,  in  a  low  voice,  but  quite  audibly. 

"  Oh,  I  have  not  forgotten  you  !  "  said  Sylvia, 
trying  to  speak  pleasantly  as  she  gave  her 
hand.  "  But  where  in  the  world  did  you  come 


60  A   HOSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

from  ?  And  what  are  you  doing  in  a  milliner's 
shop  ?  " 

"  I  happened  to  see  you  through  the  window, 
so  I  just  came  in  to  say  how  do  you  do.  There's 
no  harm  in  my  coming  in,  is  there  ?  You  look 
all  right.  You're  perfectly  lovely." 

His  eyes  were  so  bright  that  Sylvia  felt  oddly 
uncomfortable. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  answered,  with  an  indiffer 
ence  she  did  not  feel.  "It's  all  right  —  I 
mean  —  I  wish  you  would  go  away  now,  and 
come  and  see  us  at  the  hotel,  if  you  like,  by 
and  by." 

"  Can't  I  stay  and  talk  to  you  ?  Why  can't 
I  stay  and  talk  to  her,  Miss  Wimpole?"  he 
asked,  appealing  to  the  latter.  "  I  want  to 
stay  and  talk  to  her.  We  are  awfully  old 
friends,  you  know ;  aren't  we,  Sylvia  ?  You 
don't  mind  my  calling  you  Sylvia,  instead  of 
Miss  Sylvia,  do  you?" 

"Oh    no!       I    don't    mind    that!"     Sylvia 

laughed   a   little.       "  But    do   please    go   away 

i  " 
now ! 

"  Well  —  if  I  must  —  "  he  broke  off,  evidently 
reluctant  to  do  as  she  wished.  "  I  say,"  he 
began  again  with  a  sudden  thought,  "  you  like 
that  hat  you're  trying  on,  don't  you  ?  " 

Instantly  Sylvia,  who  was  a  woman,  though 
a  very  young  one,  turned  to  the  glass  again, 


A  KOSB   OP  YESTERDAY  61 

settled  the  hat  on  her  head  and  looked  at  her 
self  critically. 

"  The  ribbons  stick  up  too  much,  don't  they  ?  " 
she  asked,  speaking  to  Miss  Wimpole,  and  quite 
forgetting  Archie  Harmon's  presence.  "  Yes, 
of  course  they  do!  The  ribbons  stick  up  too 
much,"  she  repeated  to  the  milliner  in  French. 

A  brilliant  idea  had  struck  Archie  Harmon. 
He  was  already  at  the  desk,  where  a  young 
woman  in  black  received  the  payments  of  pass 
ing  customers  with  a  grieved  manner. 

"  She  says  the  ribbons  stick  up  too  much,"  he 
said  to  the  person  at  the  desk.  "You  get 
them  to  stick  up  just  right,  will  you?  The 
way  she  wants  them.  How  much  did  you  say 
the  hat  was  ?  Eighty  francs?  There  it  is.  Just 
say  that  it's  paid  for,  when  she  asks  for  the  bill." 

The  young  woman  in  black  raked  in  the  note 
and  the  bits  of  gold  he  gave  her,  catching  them 
under  her  hard,  thin  thumb  on  the  edge  of  the 
desk,  and  counting  them  as  she  slipped  them 
into  her  little  drawer.  She  looked  rather  curi 
ously  at  Archie,  and  there  was  still  some  sur 
prise  in  her  sour  face  when  he  was  already  on 
the  pavement  outside.  He  stopped  under  the 
awning  again,  and  peered  through  the  window 
for  a  last  look  at  the  grey  figure  before  the 
mirror,  but  he  fled  precipitately  when  Sylvia 
turned  as  though  she  were  going  to  look  at 


62  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

him.  He  was  thoroughly  delighted  with  him 
self.  It  was  just  what  Colonel  Wimpole  had 
done  about  the  miniature,  he  thought ;  and 
then,  a  hat  was  so  much  more  useful  than  a 
piece  of  painted  ivory. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  in  his  own 
room  again,  sitting  quite  quietly  on  a  chair  by 
the  window,  and  thinking  how  happy  he  was, 
and  how  pleased  Sylvia  must  be  by  that  time. 

But  Sylvia's  behaviour  when  she  found  out 
what  he  had  done  would  have  damped  his  inno 
cent  joy,  if  he  had  been  looking  through  the 
windows  of  the  shop,  instead  of  sitting  in  his 
own  room.  Her  father,  the  admiral,  had  a  hot 
temper,  and  she  had  inherited  some  of  it. 

"Impertinent  young  idiot!"  she  exclaimed, 
when  she  realized  that  he  had  actually  paid  for 
the  hat,  and  the  angry  blood  rushed  to  her  face. 
"What  in  the  world  — "  She  could  not  find 
words. 

"He  is  half-witted,  poor  boy,"  interrupted 
Miss  Wimpole.  "  Take  the  hat,  and  I  will 
manage  to  give  his  mother  the  money." 

"  Betty  Foy  and  her  idiot  boy  over  again!" 
said  Sylvia,  with  all  the  brutal  cruelty  of  extreme 
youth.  "'That  all  who  view  the  idiot  in  his 
glory'  —  "  As  the  rest  of  the  quotation  was  not 
applicable,  she  stopped  and  stamped  her  little 
foot  in  speechless  indignation. 


A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  63 

"  The  young  gentleman  doubtless  thought  to 
give  Mademoiselle  pleasure,"  suggested  the  mil 
liner,  suavely.  "He  is  doubtless  a  relation  —  " 

"  He  is  not  a  relation  at  all ! "  exclaimed  Syl 
via  in  English,  to  Miss  Wimpole.  "  My  relations 
are  not  idiots,  thank  Heaven !  And  it's  the  only 
one  of  all  those  hats  that  I  could  wear!  Oh, 
Aunt  Rachel,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  can't  possibly 
take  the  thing,  you  know !  And  I  must  have 
a  hat.  I've  come  all  the  way  from  Japan  with 
this  old  one,  and  it  isn't  fit  to  be  seen." 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  take 
this  one,"  said  Miss  Wimpole,  philosophically. 
"  I  promise  you  that  Mrs.  Harmon  shall  have 
the  money  by  to-night,  since  she  is  here.  Your 
Uncle  Richard  will  go  and  see  her  at  once,  of 
course,  and  he  can  manage  it.  They  are  on 
terms  of  intimacy,"  she  added  rather  primly, 
for  Helen  Harmon  was  the  only  person  in  the 
world  of  whom  she  had  ever  been  jealous. 

"  You  always  use  such  dreadfully  correct  lan 
guage,  Aunt  Rachel,"  answered  the  young  girl. 
"  Why  don't  you  say  that  they  are  old  friends  ? 
'  Terms  of  intimacy '  sounds  so  severe,  some 
how." 

"  You  seem  impatient,  my  dear,"  observed 
Miss  Wimpole,  as  though  stating  a  fact  about 
nature. 

"  I  am,"  answered  Sylvia.     "  I  know  I  am. 


64  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

You  would  bo  impatient  if  an  escaped  lunatic 
rushed  into  a  shop  and  paid  for  your  gloves,  or 
your  shoes,  or  your  hat,  and  then  rushed  off 
again,  goodness  knows  where.  Wouldn't  you  ? 
Don't  you  think  I  am  right  ? " 

"  You  had  better  tell  them  to  send  the  hat 
to  the  hotel,"  suggested  Aunt  Rachel,  not  pay 
ing  the  least  attention  to  Sylvia's  appeal  for 
justification. 

"  If  I  must  take  it,  I  may  as  well  wear  it  at 
once,  and  look  like  a  human  being,"  said  Sylvia. 
"  That  is,  if  you  will  really  promise  to  send  Mrs. 
Harmon  the  eighty  francs  at  once." 

"  I  promise,"  answered  Miss  Wimpole,  sol 
emnly,  and  as  she  had  never  broken  her  word 
in  her  life,  Sylvia  felt  that  the  difficulty  was 
at  an  end. 

The  milliner  smiled  sweetly,  and  bowed  them 
out. 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Sylvia,  as  she  walked 
up  the  street  with  the  pretty  hat  on  her  head, 
"  it  is  an  outrageous  piece  of  impertinence. 
Idiots  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  go  about 
alone." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  pity  the  poor  fel 
low,"  said  Miss  Wimpole,  with  a  sort  of  severe 
kindliness,  that  was  genuine  but  irritating. 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  will  pity  him  by  and  by,  when 
I'm  not  angry,"  answered  the  young  girl.  "  Of 


A    ROSE    OP   YESTERDAY  65 

course  —  it's  all  right,  Aunt  Rachel,  and  I'm  not 
depraved  nor  heartless,  really.  Only,  it  was 
very  irritating." 

"  You  had  better  not  say  anything  about  it  to 
your  Uncle  Richard,  my  dear.  He  is  so  fond  of 
Archie's  mother  that  he  will  feel  very  badly 
about  it.  I  will  break  it  to  him  gently." 

"Would  he?"  asked  Sylvia,  in  surprise. 
"  About  herself,  I  should  understand  —  but 
about  that  boy !  I  can't  see  why  he  should 
mind." 

"  He  i  minds,'  as  you  call  it,  everything  that 
has  to  do  with  Mrs.  Harmon." 

Sylvia  glanced  at  her  companion,  but  said 
nothing,  and  they  walked  on  in  silence  for  some 
time.  It  was  still  hot,  for  the  sun  had  not  sunk 
behind  the  mountains ;  but  the  street  was  full 
of  people,  who  walked  about  indifferent  to  the 
temperature,  because  Switzerland  is  supposed  to 
be  a  cold  country,  and  they  therefore  thought 
that  it  was  their  own  fault  if  they  felt  warm. 
This  is  the  principle  upon  which  nine  people  out 
of  ten  see  the  world  when  they  go  abroad.  And 
there  was  a  fine  crop  of  European  and  American 
varieties  of  the  tourist  taking  the  air  on  that 
afternoon,  men,  women,  and  children.  The  men 
who  had  huge  field-glasses  slung  over  their  shoul 
ders  by  straps  predominated,  and  one,  by  whom 
Sylvia  was  particularly  struck,  was  arrayed  in 


66  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

blue  serge  knickerbockers,  patent-leather  walk 
ing-boots,  and  a  very  shiny  high  hat.  But  there 
were  also  occasional  specimens  of  what  she 
called  the  human  being  —  men  in  the  ordinary 
garments  of  civilization,  and  not  provided  with 
opera-glasses.  There  were,  moreover,  young  and 
middle-aged  women  in  short  skirts,  boots  with 
soles  half  an  inch  thick,  complexions  in  which 
the  hue  of  the  boiled  lobster  vied  with  the 
deeper  tone  of  the  stewed  cherry,  bearing  alpen 
stocks  that  rang  and  clattered  on  the  pavement ; 
women  who,  in  the  state  of  life  to  which  Heaven 
had  called  them,  would  have  gone  to  Margate 
or  Staten  Island  for  a  Sunday  outing,  but  who 
had  rebelled  against  providence,  and  forced  the 
men  of  their  families  to  bring  them  abroad. 
And  the  men  generally  walked  a  little  behind 
them  and  had  no  alpenstocks,  but  carried  shawls 
and  paper  bundles,  badges  of  servitude,  and 
hoped  that  they  might  not  meet  acquaintances 
in  Lucerne,  because  their  women  looked  like 
angry  cooks  and  had  no  particular  luggage. 
Now  and  then  a  smart  old  gentleman  with  an 
eyeglass,  in  immaculate  grey  or  white,  threaded 
his  way  along  the  pavement,  with  an  air  of 
excessive  boredom ;  or  a  young  couple  passed 
by,  in  the  recognizable  newness  of  honeymoon 
clothes,  the  young  wife  talking  perpetually,  and 
evidently  laughing  at  the  ill-dressed  women, 


A   KOSE   OF   YESTERDAY  67 

while  the  equally  young  husband  answered  in 
monosyllables,  and  was  visibly  nervous  lest  his 
bride's  remarks  should  be  overheard  and  give 
offence. 

Then  there  were  children,  obtrusively  English 
children,  taken  abroad  to  be  shown  the  misera 
ble  inferiority  of  the  non-British  world,  and  to 
learn  that  every  one  who  had  not  yellow  hair 
and  blue  eyes  was  a  '  nasty  foreigner,'  —  unless, 
of  course,  the  individual  happened  to  be  Eng 
lish,  in  which  case  nothing  was  said  about  hair 
and  complexion.  And  also  there  were  the  vul 
gar  little  children  of  the  not  long  rich,  repul 
sively  disagreeable  to  the  world  in  general,  but 
pathetic  in  the  eyes  of  thinking  men  and 
women.  They  are  the  sprouting  shoots  of  the 
gold-tree,  beings  predestined  never  to  enjoy,  be 
cause  they  will  be  always  able  to  buy  what 
strong  men  fight  for,  and  will  never  learn  to 
enjoy  what  is  really  to  be  had  only  for  money; 
and  the  measure  of  value  will  not  be  in  their 
hands  and  heads,  but  in  bank-books,  out  of 
which  their  manners  have  been  bought  with 
mingled  affection  and  vanity.  Surely,  if  any 
thing  is  more  intolerable  than  a  vulgar  woman, 
it  is  a  vulgar  child.  The  poor  little  thing  is 
produced  by  all  nations  and  races,  from  the 
Anglo-Saxon  to  the  Slav.  Its  father  was  happy 
in  the  struggle  that  ended  in  success.  When  it 


68  A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

grows  old,  its  own  children  will  perhaps  be  happy 
in  the  sort  of  refined  existence  which  wealth  can 
bring  in  the  third  generation.  But  the  child  of 
the  man  grown  suddenly  rich  is  a  living  misfort 
une  between  two  happinesses  :  neither  a  worker 
nor  an  enjoyer ;  having  neither  the  satisfac 
tion  of  the  one,  nor  the  pleasures  of  the  other; 
hated  by  its  inferiors  in  fortune,  and  a  source  of 
amusement  to  its  ethic  and  aesthetic  betters. 

Sylvia  had  never  thought  much  about  the 
people  she  passed  in  a  crowd.  Thought  is  gen 
erally  the  result  of  suffering  of  some  kind,  bodily 
or  intellectual,  and  she  had  but  little  acquaint 
ance  with  either.  She  had  travelled  much,  and 
had  been  very  happy  until  the  present  time, 
having  been  shown  the  world  on  bright  days 
and  by  pleasant  paths.  But  to-day  she  was 
not  happy,  and  she  began  to  wonder  how  many 
of  the  men  and  women  in  the  street  had  what 
she  had  heard  called  a  'secret  care.'  Her  eyes 
had  been  red  when  she  had  at  last  yielded  to 
Miss  Wimpole's  entreaties  to  open  the  door, 
but  the  redness  was  gone  already,  and  when 
she  had  tried  on  the  hat  before  the  glass  she 
had  seen  with  a  little  vanity,  mingled  with 
a  little  disappointment,  that  she  looked  very 
much  as  usual,  after  all.  Indeed,  there  had 
been  more  than  one  moment  when  she  had 
forgotten  her  troubles  because  the  ribbons  on 


A  ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  69 

the  new  hat  stuck  up  too  much.  Yet  she  was 
really  unhappy,  and  sad  at  heart.  Perhaps 
some  of  the  people  she  passed,  even  the  women 
with  red  faces,  dusty  skirts,  and  clattering 
alpenstocks,  were  unhappy  too. 

She  was  not  a  foolish  girl,  nor  absurdly 
romantic,  nor  full  of  silly  sentimentalities,  any 
more  than  she  was  in  love  with  Colonel  Wimpole 
in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  For  she  knew 
nothing  of  its  real  meaning,  and,  apart  from 
that  meaning,  what  she  felt  for  him  filled  all 
the  conditions  proposed  by  her  imagination.  If 
one  could  classify  the  ways  by  which  young 
people  pass  from  childhood  to  young  maturity, 
one  might  say  that  they  are  brought  up  by  the 
head,  by  the  imagination,  or  by  the  heart,  and 
one  might  infer  that  their  subsequent  lives  are 
chiefly  determined  by  that  one  of  the  three 
which  has  been  the  leading-string.  Sylvia's 
imagination  had  generally  had  the  upper  hand, 
and  it  had  been  largely  fed  and  cultivated  by 
her  guardian,  though  quite  unintentionally  on  his 
part.  His  love  of  artistic  things  led  him  to  talk 
of  them,  and  his  chivalric  nature  found  sources 
of  enthusiasm  in  lofty  ideals,  while  his  own 
life,  directed  and  moved  as  it  was  by  a  secret, 
unchanging  and  self-sacrificing  devotion  to  one 
good  woman,  might  have  served  as  a  model 
for  any  man.  Modest,  and  not  much  inclined 


70  A   ROSE   OP    YESTERDAY 

to  think  of  himself,  he  did  not  realize  that 
although  the  highest  is  quite  beyond  any  one's 
reach,  the  search  after  it  is  always  upward,  and 
may  lead  a  good  man  very  far. 

Sylvia  saw  the  result,  and  loved  it  for  its  own 
sake  with  an  attachment  so  strong  that  it  made 
her  blind  to  the  more  natural  sort  of  humanity 
which  the  colonel  seemed  to  have  outgrown, 
and  which,  after  all,  is  the  world  as  we  inherit 
it,  to  love  it,  or  hate  it,  or  be  indifferent  to  it, 
but  to  live  with  it,  whether  we  will  or  not.  He 
fulfilled  her  ideal,  because  it  was  an  ideal  which 
he  himself  had  created  in  her  mind,  and  to 
which  he  himself  nearly  approached.  Logically 
speaking,  she  was  in  a  vicious  circle,  and  she 
liked  what  he  had  taught  her  to  like,  but  liked 
it  more  than  he  knew  she  did. 

Sylvia  glanced  at  Miss  Wimpole  sideways. 
She  knew  her  simple  story,  and  wondered 
whether  she  herself  was  to  live  the  same  sort 
of  life.  The  idea  rather  frightened  her,  to  tell 
the  truth,  for  she  knew  the  aridity  of  the  elderly 
maiden  lady's  existence,  and  dreaded  anything 
like  it.  But  it  was  very  simple  and  logical  and 
actual.  Miss  Wimpole  had  loved  a  man  who 
had  been  killed.  Of  course  she  had  never  mar 
ried,  nor  ever  thought  of  loving  any  one  else. 
It  was  perfectly  simple.  And  Sylvia  loved, 
and  was  not  loved,  as  she  told  herself,  and 


A   EOSE   OF   YESTERDAY  71 

she  also  must  look  forward  to  a  perpetually 
grey  life. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  felt  how  young  she  was, 
and  she  knew  that  the  colonel  was  almost  an 
old  man,  and  her  heart  rebelled.  But  this 
seemed  disloyal,  and  she  blushed  at  the  word 
'  unfaithful,'  which  spoke  itself  in  her  sensitive 
conscience  with  the  cruel  power  to  hurt  which 
such  words  have  against  perfect  innocence. 
Besides,  it  was  as  if  she  were  quarrelling  with 
what  she  liked,  because  she  could  not  have  it, 
and  she  felt  as  though  she  were  thinking  child 
ishly,  which  is  a  shame  in  youth's  eyes. 

Also,  she  was  nervous  about  meeting  him 
again,  for  she  had  not  seen  him  since  she  had 
fled  from  the  room  in  tears,  though  he  had  seen 
her  on  the  bridge.  She  wished  that  she  might 
not  see  him  at  all  for  a  whole  day,  at  least, 
and  that  seemed  a  very  long  time. 

Altogether,  when  she  went  into  the  hotel 
again,  she  was  in  a  very  confused  state  of  mind 
and  heart,  and  was  beginning  to  wish  that  she 
had  never  been  born.  But  that  was  childish, 
too. 


CHAPTER   IV 

HELEN  HARMON  was  glad  when  the  colonel 
was  gone.  She  went  to  a  mirror,  fixed  to  the 
wall  between  the  two  windows  of  the  room,  and 
she  carefully  rearranged  her  hair.  She  could 
not  feel  quite  herself  until  she  knew  that  the 
scar  was  covered  again  and  hidden  from  curious 
eyes.  Then  she  sat  down,  glad  to  be  alone. 
It  had  been  a  great  and  unexpected  pleasure  to 
see  Wimpole,  but  the  discovery  he  had  made, 
and  the  things  he  had  said,  had  disturbed  and 
unnerved  her. 

There  had  been  conviction  in  his  voice  when 
he  had  said  that  Harmon  might  recover,  and  the 
possibility  of  a  change  in  her  husband's  con 
dition  had  crossed  her  mind  more  than  once. 
She  felt  that  a  return  to  such  a  state  of  things 
as  had  made  up  her  life  before  he  had  become 
insane,  would  kill  her  by  slow  torture.  It  was 
of  no  use  any  longer  to  tell  herself  that  recovery 
was  impossible,  and  to  persuade  herself  that  it 
was  so  by  the  mere  repetition  of  the  words. 
Words  had  no  more  weight,  now. 

72 


A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  73 

She  thought  of  her  freedom  since  that  merci 
ful  deliverance.  It  was  not  happiness,  for  there 
were  other  things  yet  to  be  suffered,  but  it  was 
real  freedom.  She  had  her  son's  affliction  to 
bear,  but  she  could  bear  it  alone  and  go  and 
come  with  him  as  she  pleased.  She  contrasted 
this  liberty  with  what  she  had  borne  for  years. 

The  whole  history  of  their  married  life  came 
back  to  her,  the  gradual  progress  of  it  from  first 
to  last,  if  indeed  it  had  yet  reached  the  end  and 
was  not  to  go  back  to  the  beginning  again. 

First  there  had  been  the  sort  of  half-contented 
resignation  which  many  young  women  feel  dur 
ing  the  early  months  of  married  life,  when  they 
have  made  what  is  called  by  the  world  a  good 
match,  simply  because  they  saw  no  reason  for 
not  marrying  and  because  they  were  ashamed  to 
own  that  they  cared  for  a  man  who  did  not  seem 
to  be  attached  to  them.  Sometimes  the  state 
lasts  throughout  life,  a  neutral,  passionless, 
negative  state,  in  which  the  heart  turns  flat  and 
life  is  soon  stale,  a  condition  in  which  many 
women,  not  knowing  what  pain  is,  grow  rest 
less  and  believe  that  it  must  be  pleasanter  to  be 
hurt  than  to  feel  nothing. 

Henry  Harmon  had  been  handsome,  full  of 
life  and  nerve  and  enthusiasm  for  living,  a  rider, 
a  sportsman,  more  reckless  than  brave  and  more 
brave  than  strong-minded,  with  a  gift  for  being, 


74  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

or  seeming  to  be,  desperately  in  love,  which  had 
ultimately  persuaded  Helen  to  marry  him  in 
spite  of  her  judgment.  He  turned  pale  when  he 
was  long  near  her,  his  eyes  flashed  darkly,  his 
hands  shook  a  little,  and  his  voice  trembled.  An 
older  woman  might  have  thought  it  all  rather 
theatrical,  but  he  seemed  to  suffer,  and  that 
moved  Helen,  though  it  did  not  make  her  really 
love  him.  Women  know  that  weakness  of 
theirs  and  are  more  afraid  of  pitying  an  import 
unate  suitor  than  of  admiring  him.  So  Helen 
married  Harmon. 

Disillusionment  came  as  daylight  steals  upon 
dancers  in  a  ballroom.  At  first  it  Avas  not  so 
painful  as  might  have  been  imagined,  for  Helen 
was  not  excessively  sensitive,  and  she  had  never 
really  loved  the  man  in  the  least.  He  grew 
tired  of  her  and  left  her  to  herself  a  good  deal. 
That  was  a  relief,  at  first,  for  after  she  had 
realized  that  she  did  not  love  him,  she  shrank 
from  him  instinctively,  with  something  very 
like  real  shame,  and  to  be  left  alone  was  like 
being  respected. 

"  Mrs.  Blank's  husband  is  neglecting  her," 
says  one. 

"  She  does  not  seem  to  care ;  she  looks  very 
happy,"  answers  another. 

And  she  is  temporarily  happy,  because  Mr. 
Blank's  neglect  gives  her  a  sense  of  bodily 


A  HOSE   OF   YESTERDAY  75 

relief,  for  she  knows  that  she  has  made  a  mis 
take  in  marrying  him.  It  was  so  with  Helen, 
and  as  she  was  not  a  changeable  nor  at  all  a 
capricious  person,  it  might  have  continued  to  be 
so.  But  Harmon  changed  rapidly  in  the  years 
that  followed.  From  having  been  what  people 
called  fast,  he  became  dissipated.  He  had 
always  loved  the  excitement  of  wine.  When 
it  failed  him,  he  took  to  stronger  stuff,  which 
presently  became  the  essential  requisite  of  his 
being.  He  had  been  said  to  be  gay,  then  he 
was  spoken  of  as  wild,  then  as  dissipated.  Some 
people  avoided  him,  and  every  one  pitied  Helen. 
Yet  although  he  ruined  his  constitution,  he  did 
not  wreck  his  fortunes,  for  he  was  lucky  in  all 
affairs  connected  with  money.  There  remained 
many  among  his  acquaintances  who  could  not 
afford  to  disapprove  of  him,  because  he  had 
power. 

He  drank  systematically,  as  some  men  do, 
for  the  sake  of  daily  excitement,  and  Helen 
learned  to  know  tolerably  well  when  he  was 
dangerous  and  when  he  might  be  approached 
with  safety.  But  more  than  once  she  had  made 
horrible  mistakes,  and  the  memories  of  them 
were  like  dreams  out  of  hell.  In  his  drunken 
ness  her  face  recalled  other  days  to  him,  and 
forgotten  words  of  passion  found  thick  and 
indistinct  utterance.  Once  she  had  turned  on 


76  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

him,  white  and  desperate  in  her  self-defence. 
He  struck  her  on  the  forehead  with  a  cut-glass 
decanter,  snatched  from  her  toilet  table.  When 
she  came  to  herself  hours  afterwards,  it  was 
daylight.  Harmon  was  in  a  drunken  sleep,  and 
the  blood  on  his  face  was  hers. 

She  shuddered  with  pain  from  head  to  foot 
when  she  thought  of  it.  Then  had  come 
strange  lapses  of  his  memory,  disconnected 
speech,  even  hysterical  tears,  following  sense 
less  anger,  and  then  he  had  ceased  to  recog 
nize  any  one,  and  had  almost  killed  one  of  the 
men  who  took  care  of  him,  so  that  it  was  neces 
sary  to  take  him  to  an  asylum,  struggling  like  a 
wild  beast.  Twice,  out  of  a  sense  of  duty,  she 
had  been  to  see  whether  he  knew  her,  but  he 
knew  no  one,  and  the  doctors  said  it  was  a 
hopeless  case.  Since  then  she  had  received 
a  simple  confirmation  of  the  statement  every 
month,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  reason  for 
expecting  any  change,  and  she  felt  free. 

Free  was  the  only  word  she  could  find,  and 
she  applied  it  to  herself  in  a  sense  of  her  own, 
meaning  that  she  had  been  liberated  from  the 
thraldom  in  which  she  had  lived  so  many  years 
face  to  face  with  his  brutality,  and  hiding  it 
from  the  world  as  best  she  could,  protecting  and 
defending  his  name,  and  refusing  pity  as  she 
would  have  refused  money  had  she  been  poor. 


A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  77 

People  might  guess  what  she  suffered,  but  no  one 
should  know  it  from  her,  and  no  one  but  herself 
could  tell  the  half  of  what  she  underwent. 

Yet,  now  that  it  was  all  over,  Wimpole  sug 
gested  that  it  might  begin  again,  unless  she  took 
measures  to  defend  herself.  But  her  heart  re 
volted  at  the  idea  of  a  divorce.  She  wondered, 
as  she  tried  to  test  herself,  whether  she  could 
be  as  strong  if  the  case  really  arose.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  to  ask  whether  her  strength 
might  not  be  folly,  for  it  lay  in  one  of  those 
convictions  by  which  unusual  characters  are 
generally  moved,  and  conviction  never  ques 
tions  itself. 

It  was  not  that  in  order  to  be  divorced  she 
must  almost  necessarily  bring  up  in  public  and 
prove  by  evidence  a  certain  number  of  her 
many  wrongs.  The  publicity  would  be  hor 
rible.  Every  newspaper  in  the  country  would 
print  the  details,  with  hideous  head-lines.  Even 
her  son's  deficiency  would  be  dragged  into  the 
light.  She  should  have  to  explain  how  she  had 
come  by  the  scar  on  her  forehead,  and  much  more 
that  would  be  harder  to  tell,  if  she  could  bring 
her  lips  to  speak  the  words. 

Nevertheless,  she  could  do  that,  and  bear  every 
thing,  for  a  good  cause.  If,  for  instance,  Archie's 
future  depended  upon  it,  or  even  if  it  could  do 
him  some  good,  she  could  do  all  that  for  his 


78  A   ROSE    OF    YESTERDAY 

sake.  But  even  for  his  sake,  she  would  not  be 
divorced,  not  even  if  Harmon  were  let  out  of 
the  asylum  and  came  back  to  her. 

Some  people,  perhaps  many,  could  not  under 
stand  such  a  prejudice,  or  conviction,  now  that 
all  convictions  are  commonly  spoken  of  as  rela 
tive.  But  will  those  who  do  not  understand 
Helen  Harmon  consider  how  the  world  looked 
upon  divorce  as  recently  as  five  and  twenty 
years  ago  ?  Nothing  can  give  a  clearer  idea 
of  the  direction  taken  by  social  morality  than 
the  way  in  which  half  the  world  has  become 
accustomed  to  regard  marriage  as  a  contract, 
and  not  as  a  bond,  during  the  lifetime  of  people 
now  barely  in  middle  age. 

Twenty-five  or  thirty  years  ago  divorces  were 
so  rare  as  to  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  very 
uncommon  exceptions  to  the  general  rule.  The 
divorce  law  itself  is  not  yet  forty  years  old  in 
England,  nor  twenty  years  old  in  France.  In 
Italy  there  is  no  civil  divorce  whatever  at  the 
present  day,  and  the  Catholic  Church  only  grants 
what  are  not  properly  divorces,  but  annihilations 
of  marriage,  in  very  rare  cases,  and  with  the 
greatest  reluctance. 

Even  in  America,  every  one  can  remember  how 
divorce  was  spoken  of  and  thought  of  until  very 
recently.  Within  a  few  years  it  was  deemed 
to  be  something  very  like  a  disgrace,  and  cer- 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  79 

tainly  a  profoundly  cynical  and  immoral  pro 
ceeding.  To-day  we  can  most  of  us  count  in 
our  own  acquaintance  half  a  dozen  persons  who 
have  been  divorced  and  have  married  again. 
Whatever  we  may  think  of  it  in  our  hearts,  or 
whatever  our  religious  convictions  may  be  on 
the  subject,  it  has  become  so  common  that  when 
\ve  hear  of  a  flagrant  case  of  cruelty  or  unfaith 
fulness,  by  which  a  man  or  woman  suffers,  the 
question  at  once  rises  to  our  lips,  '  Why  does 
he  not  divorce  his  wife  ? '  or  '  Why  does  she 
not  divorce  her  husband?'  We  have  grown 
used  to  the  idea,  and,  if  it  does  not  please  us, 
it  certainly  does  not  shock  us.  It  shocked  our 
fathers,  but  AVC  are  perfectly  indifferent. 

Of  course  there  are  many,  perhaps  a  majority, 
who,  though  not  Roman  Catholics,  would  in  their 
own  lives  put  up  with  almost  anything  rather 
than  go  to  the  divorce  court  for  peace.  Some 
actually  suffer  much  and  ask  for  no  redress. 
But  there  are  very  many  who  have  not  suffered 
anything  at  all,  excepting  the  favourite  *  incom 
patibility  of  temper,'  and  who  have  taken  advan 
tage  of  the  loose  laws  in  certain  states  to  try 
a  second  matrimonial  experiment.  In  what 
calls  itself  society,  there  seems  still  to  be  a 
prejudice  against  a  third  marriage  for  divorced 
persons,  but  at  the  present  rate  of  so-called 
progress  this  cannot  last  long,  and  the  old 


80  A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

significance  of  the  word  marriage  will  be  quite 
lost  before  our  great  grandchildren  are  dead; 
in  other  words,  by  the  end  of  the  next  century, 
at  the  furthest. 

There  are  various  forms  of  honourable  political 
dreaming  and  of  dishonourable  political  mischief- 
making  nowadays,  which  we  are  accustomed  to 
call  collectively  '  socialism.'  Most  of  these  rely 
for  their  hope  of  popular  success  upon  their 
avowed  intention  of  dividing  property  and  pre 
venting  its  subsequent  accumulation.  Marriage 
is  an  incentive  of  such  accumulation,  because  it 
perpetuates  families  and  therefore  keeps  property 
together  by  inheritance.  Therefore  most  forms 
of  socialism  are  at  present  in  favour  of  divorce, 
as  a  means  of  ultimately  destroying  marriage 
altogether.  A  proverb  says  that  whosoever 
desires  the  end,  desires  also  the  means.  There 
is  more  truth  in  the  saying  than  morality  in  the 
point  of  view  it  expresses.  But  there  are  those 
who  desire  neither  the  means  nor  the  end  to 
which  they  lead,  and  a  struggle  is  coming,  the 
like  of  which  has  not  been  seen  since  the  begin 
ning  of  the  world,  and  of  which  wre  who  are 
now  alive  shall  not  see  the  termination. 

The  Civil  War  in  the  United  States  turned 
upon  slavery  incidentally,  not  vitally.  The  cause 
of  that  great  fight  lay  much  deeper.  In  the  same 
way  the  Social  War,  which  is  coming,  will  turn 


A  EOSE   OF  YESTERDAY  81 

incidentally  upon  religion,  and  be  perhaps  called 
a  religious  war  hereafter,  but  it  will  not  be  de 
clared  for  the  sake  of  faith  against  unbelief,  nor 
be  fought  at  first  by  any  church,  or  alliance  of 
churches,  against  atheism.  It  will  simply  turn 
out  that  the  men  who  fight  on  the  one  side  will 
have  either  the  convictions  or  the  prejudices  of 
Christianity,  or  both,  and  that  their  adversaries 
will  have  neither.  But  the  struggle  will  be  at 
its  height  when  the  original  steady  current  of 
facts  which  led  to  inevitable  strife  has  sunk  into 
apparent  insignificance  under  the  raging  storm 
of  conflicting  belief  and  unbelief.  The  disad 
vantage  of  the  unbelievers  will  lie  in  the  fact 
that  belief  is  positive  and  assertive,  whereas  un 
belief  is  negative  and  argumentative.  It  is 
indeed  easier  to  deny  than  to  prove  almost  any 
thing.  But  that  is  not  the  question.  In  life 
and  war  it  is  generally  easier  to  keep  than  to 
take,  and  besides,  those  who  believe  i  care,'  as 
we  say,  whereas  those  who  deny  generally  'care' 
very  little.  It  is  probable,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
that  so  long  as  the  socialists  of  the  near  future 
believe  assertively  that  they  have  discovered  the 
means  of  saving  humanity  from  misery  and 
poverty,  and  fight  for  a  pure  conviction,  they 
will  have  the  better  of  it,  but  that  when  they 
find  themselves  in  the  position  of  attacking  half 
of  mankind's  religious  faith,  having  no  idea,  but 


82  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

only  a  proposition,  to  offer  in  its  place,  they  will 
be  beaten. 

That  seems  far  from  the  question  of  divorce, 
but  it  is  not.  Before  the  battle,  the  opposing 
forces  are  encamped  and  intrenched  at  a  little 
distance  from  each  other,  and  each  tries  to  un 
dermine  the  other's  outworks.  Socialism,  col 
lectively,  has  dug  a  mine  under  Social  Order's 
strongest  tower,  which  is  called  marriage,  and 
the  edifice  is  beginning  to  shake  from  its  foun 
dations,  even  before  the  slow-match  is  lighted. 

To  one  who  has  known  the  world  well  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  it  seems  as  though  the 
would-be  destroyers  of  the  existing  order  had 
forgotten,  among  several  other  things,  the  exist 
ence  of  woman,  remembering  only  that  of  the 
female.  They  practically  propose  to  take  away 
woman's  privileges  in  exchange  for  certain  more 
or  less  imaginary  'rights.'  There  is  an  apparent 
justice  in  the  '  conversion,'  as  it  would  be  called 
in  business.  If  woman  is  to  have  all  the  rights 
of  man,  which,  indeed,  seem  reducible  to  a  politi 
cal  vote  now  and  then,  why  should  she  keep  all 
the  privileges  which  man  is  not  allowed  ?  But 
tell  her  that  when  she  is  allowed  to  vote  for  the 
president  of  the  United  States  once  in  four  years, 
no  man  shall  be  expected  to  stand  up  in  a  public 
conveyance  to  give  her  a  seat,  nor  to  fetch  and 
carry  for  her,  nor  to  support  her  instead  of  being 


A    ROSE   OB'   YESTERDAY  83 

supported  by  her,  nor  to  keep  her  for  his  wife 
any  longer  than  he  chooses,  and  the  '  conversion ' 
looks  less  attractive. 

The  reason  why  woman  has  privileges  instead 
of  rights  is  that  all  men  tacitly  acknowledge  the 
future  of  humanity  to  be  dependent  on  her  from 
generation  to  generation.  Man  works  or  fights, 
and  takes  his  rights  in  payment  therefor,  as 
well  as  for  a  means  of  working  and  fighting  to 
greater  advantage.  And  while  he  is  fighting  or 
working,  his  wife  takes  care  of  his  children  al 
most  entirely.  There  is  not  one  household  in  a 
hundred  thousand,  rich  or  poor,  where  there  is 
really  any  question  about  that.  It  sounds  in 
significant,  perhaps,  and  it  looks  as  though  any 
body  could  take  care  of  two  or  three  small 
children.  Those  who  have  tried  it  know  better, 
and  they  are  women.  Now  and  then  rich  mothers 
are  too  lazy  to  look  after  their  children  them 
selves.  To  do  them  such  justice  as  one  may, 
they  are  willing  to  spend  any  amount  of  money 
in  order  to  get  it  well  done  for  them,  but  the 
result  is  not  encouraging  to  those  who  would 
have  all  children  brought  up  '  by  the  state.7 
Even  if  it  were  so,  who  would  bring  them  up  ? 
Women,  of  course.  Then  why  not  their  own 
mothers  ?  Because  mothers  sometimes — or  often, 
for  the  sake  of  argument — do  not  exactly  know 
how.  Then  educate  the  mothers,  give  them 


84  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

chances  of  knowing  how,  let  them  learn,  if  you 
know  any  better  than  they,  which  is  doubtful, 
to  say  the  least  of  it. 

Moreover,  does  any  man  in  his  senses  really 
believe  that  mothers,  as  a  whole,  would  sub 
mit  and  let  their  children  be  taken  from  them 
to  a  state  rearing-house,  to  be  brought  up 
under  a  number  on  a  ticket  by  professional 
baby-farmers,  in  exchange  for  the  '  right '  to 
vote  at  a  presidential  election,  and  the  'right' 
to  put  away  their  husbands  and  take  others 
as  often  as  they  please,  and  the  '  right '  to  run 
for  Congress  ?  Yet  the  plan  has  been  proposed 
gravely. 

There  seems  to  be  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in 
favour  of  the  existing  state  of  things,  after  all, 
and  particularly  in  favour  of  marriage,  and 
therefore  against  divorce ;  and  it  is  not  sur 
prising  that  woman,  whose  life  is  in  reality  far 
more  deeply  affected  by  both  questions  than 
man's  life  is,  should  have  also  the  more  pro 
found  convictions  about  them. 

Woman  brings  us  into  the  world,  woman  is 
our  first  teacher,  woman  makes  the  world  what 
it  is,  from  century  to  century.  We  can  no  more 
escape  from  woman,  and  yet  continue  to  live  our 
lives  as  they  should  be  lived,  than  we  can  hide 
ourselves  from  nature.  We  are  in  her  care  or 
in  her  power  during  more  than  half  our  years, 


A  ROSE   OF  YESTERDAY  85 

and  often  during  all,  from  first  to  last.  We  are 
born  of  her,  we  grow  of  her,  as  truly  as  trees 
and  flowers  come  of  the  mother  earth  and  draw 
their  life  from  the  soil  in  which  they  are  planted. 
The  man  who  denies  his  mother  is  a  bad  man, 
and  the  man  who  has  not  loved  woman  is  a 
man  in  darkness. 

Man  is  not  really  unjust  to  woman  in  his 
thoughts  of  her  either,  unless  he  be  a  lost  soul, 
but  he  has  not  much  reason  in  respect  of  her 
nor  any  justice  in  his  exactions.  Because  within 
himself  he  knows  that  she  is  everything  and  all 
things  for  the  life  and  joy  of  men,  therefore  he 
would  seem  perfect  in  her  eyes ;  and  he  rails 
against  whatsoever  in  her  does  not  please  him, 
as  a  blot  upon  the  lustre  of  his  ideal,  which 
indeed  he  would  make  a  glorified  reflexion  of 
his  own  faults.  When  he  is  most  imperfect, 
he  most  exacts  her  praise ;  when  he  is  weak 
est,  she  must  think  him  most  strong ;  when  he 
fails,  she  must  call  failure  victory,  or  at  the 
least  she  must  name  it  honourable  defeat;  she 
must  not  see  his  meanness,  but  she  must  mag 
nify  the  smallest  of  his  generosities  to  the  great 
measure  of  his  immeasurable  vanity  therein; 
she  must  see  faith  in  his  unfaithfulness,  honour 
in  his  disgrace,  heroism  in  his  cowardice,  for  his 
sake ;  she  must  forgive  freely  and  forgettingly 
such  injury  as  he  would  not  pardon  any  man ; 


8G  A  ROSE  OP  YESTERDAY 

in  one  word,  she  must  love  him,  that  in  her  love 
he  may  think  and  boast  himself  a  god. 

It  is  much  to  ask.  And  yet  many  a  woman 
who  loves  a  man  with  all  her  heart  has  done 
and  daily  does  every  one  of  those  things,  and 
more ;  and  the  man  knows  it,  and  will  not  think 
of  it  lest  he  should  die  of  shame.  And,  more 
over,  a  woman  has  borne  him,  a  woman  has 
nursed  him,  a  woman  taught  him  first ;  a 
woman  gives  him  her  soul  and  her  body  when 
he  is  a  man ;  and  when  he  is  dead,  if  tears  are 
shed  for  him,  they  are  a  woman's. 

If  we  men  are  honest,  we  shall  say  that  we 
do  not  give  her  much  for  all  that,  not  much 
honour,  not  much  faith.  We  think  we  do 
enough  if  we  give  her  life's  necessities  and  lux 
uries  in  fair  share  to  the  limit  of  our  poverty 
or  wealth ;  that  we  give  much,  if  we  love  her ; 
too  much,  if  we  trust  her  altogether. 

It  is  a  wonder  that  women  should  love,  seeing 
what  some  men  are  and  what  most  men  may  be 
when  the  devil  is  in  them.  It  is  a  wonder  that 
women  should  not  rise  up  in  a  body  and  demand 
laws  to  free  them  from  marriage,  for  one-half 
the  cause  that  so  many  of  them  have. 

But  they  do  not.  Even  in  this  old  age  of 
history  they  still  believe  in  marriage,  and  cling 
to  it,  and  in  vast  majority  cry  out  against  its 
dissolution.  No  man  ever  believes  in  anything 


A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY  87 

as  a  woman  who  loves  him  believes  in  him. 
Men  have  stronger  arms,  and  heads  for  harder 
work,  but  they  have  no  such  hearts  as  women. 
And  the  world  has  been  led  by  the  heart  in  all 
ages. 

Even  when  the  great  mistake  is  made,  many 
a  woman  clings  to  the  faith  that  made  it,  for 
the  sake  of  what  might  have  been,  in  a  self- 
respect  of  which  men  do  not  dream.  Even 
when  she  has  married  with  little  love,  and  taken 
a  man  who  has  turned  upon  her  like  a  brute 
beast,  her  marriage  is  still  a  bond  which  she 
will  not  break,  and  the  vow  made  is  not  void 
because  the  promise  taken  has  been  a  vain  lie. 
Its  damnation  is  upon  him  who  spoke  it,  but 
she  still  keeps  faith. 

So,  when  her  fair  years  of  youth  lay  scattered 
and  withered  as  blown  leaves  along  the  desert 
of  her  past,  Helen  Harmon,  wisely  or  unwisely, 
but  faithfully  and  with  a  whole  heart,  meant  to 
keep  that  plighted  word  which  is  not  to  be 
broken  by  wedded  man  and  woman  'until  death 
shall  them  part.' 


CHAPTER   V 

Miss  WIMPOLE  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
little  sitting-room  in  considerable  perplexity. 
When  she  was  greatly  in  doubt  as  to  her  future 
conduct,  she  puckered  her  elderly  lips,  frowned 
severely,  and  talked  to  herself  with  an  occa 
sional  energetic  shaking  of  the  head.  She 
always  did  up  her  hair  very  securely  and  neatly, 
so  that  this  was  quite  safe.  Women  who  are 
not  sure  of  their  hairpins  carry  their  heads  as 
carefully  as  a  basket  of  eggs  and  do  not  bend 
them  if  they  have  to  stoop  for  anything. 

Talking  to  oneself  is  a  bad  habit,  especially 
when  the  door  is  open,  whether  one  be  swearing 
at  something  or  examining  one's  own  conscience. 
But  Miss  Wimpole  could  not  help  it,  and  the 
question  of  returning  the  price  of  the  hat  to 
Archie  Harmon's  mother  was  such  a  very  diffi 
cult  one,  that  she  had  forgotten  to  shut  the 
door. 

"  Most  impossible  situation !  "  she  repeated 
aloud.  "  Most  terrible  situation  !  Poor  boy  ! 
Half  idiotic  —  father  mad.  Most  distressing 

88 


A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY  89 

situation  !  If  I  tell  his  mother,  I  shall  hurt  her 
feelings  dreadfully.  If  I  tell  Richard,  I  shall 
hurt  his  feelings  dreadfully.  If  I  tell  nobody, 
I  shall  break  my  promise  to  Sylvia,  besides 
putting  her  in  the  position  of  accepting  a  hat 
from  a  young  man.  Ridiculous  present,  a  hat ! 
If  it  had  only  been  a  parasol !  Parasols  are  not 
so  ridiculous  as  hats.  I  wonder  why !  Per 
fectly  impossible  to  keep  the  money,  of  course. 
Even  Judas  Iscariot  —  dear  me !  Where  are 
my  thoughts  running  to  ?  Shocking !  But  a 
terrible  situation.  It  was  dear,  too  —  eighty 
francs !  We  must  get  it  into  Mrs.  Harmon's 
hands  somehow  —  " 

"  Why  must  you  get  eighty  francs  into  Mrs. 
Harmon's  hands?"  enquired  the  colonel,  laying 
his  hat  upon  a  chair. 

The  door  had  been  open,  and  he  had  heard 
her  talking  while  he  was  in  the  corridor.  She 
uttered  an  exclamation  as  she  turned  and  saw 
him. 

"Oh  —  well — I  suppose  you  heard  me.  I 
must  really  cure  myself  of  talking  when  I  am 
alone !  But  I  was  not  saying  anything  in  par 
ticular." 

"  You  were  saying  that  you  must  manage  to 
pay  Mrs.  Harmon  eighty  francs.  It  is  very 
easy,  for  she  happens  to  be  here  and  I  have  just 
seen  her." 


90  A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

"  Oh,  I  know  she  is  here !  "  cried  Miss  Wim- 
pole.     "  I  know  it  to  my  cost !     She  and  that  — 
and  her  son,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  what  is  the  matter? 
What  is  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Richard !  You  are  so  sensitive  about 
anything  that  has  to  do  with  Mrs.  Harmon !  " 

"  I  ?  "     The  colonel  looked  at  her  quietly. 

"  Yes.  Of  course  you  are,  and  it  is  quite 
natural  and  I  quite  understand,  and  I  do  not 
blame  you  in  the  least.  But  such  a  dreadful 
thing  has  happened.  I  hardly  know  how  I  can 
tell  you  about  it.  It  is  really  too  dreadful  for 
words." 

Wimpole  sat  down  and  fanned  himself  slowly 
with  the  Paris  Herald.  He  was  still  rather 
pale,  for  his  nerves  had  been  shaken. 

"  Rachel,  my  dear,"  he  said  mildly,  "  don't  be 
silly.  Tell  me  what  is  the  matter." 

Miss  Wimpole  walked  slowly  once  round  the 
room,  stopped  at  the  window  and  looked  through 
the  blinds,  and  at  last  turned  and  faced  her 
brother  with  all  the  energy  of  her  seasoned 
character. 

"  Richard,"  she  began,  "  don't  call  me  silly 
till  you  hear.  It's  awful.  That  boy  suddenly 
appeared  in  a  shop  where  Sylvia  was  buying  a 
hat,  and  paid  for  it  and  vanished." 

"Eh?     What's  that?"  asked  Wimpole,  open- 


A  ROSE   OF   YESTEEDAY  91 

ing  his  eyes  wide.  "  I  don't  think  I  quite 
understood,  Rachel.  I  must  have  been  thinking 
of  something  else,  just  then." 

"  I  daresay  you  were,"  replied  his  sister, 
severely.  "  You  are  growing  dreadfully  absent- 
minded.  You  really  should  correct  it.  I  say 
that  when  Sylvia  was  buying  a  hat,  just  now, 
Archie  Harmon  suddenly  appeared  in  the  shop 
and  spoke  to  us.  Then  he  asked  Sylvia  whether 
she  liked  the  hat  she  was  trying  on,  and  she  said 
she  did.  Then  he  went  off,  and  when  we  wished 
to  pay  we  were  told  that  the  hat  had  been  paid 
for  by  the  young  gentleman.  Now  —  " 

The  colonel  interrupted  and  startled  his  sister 
by  laughing  aloud  at  this  point.  He  could  not 
help  it,  though  he  had  not  felt  in  the  least  as 
though  he  could  laugh  at  anything  for  a  long 
time,  when  he  had  entered  the  room.  Miss 
Wimpole  was  annoyed. 

"  Richard,"  she  said  solemnly,  "  you  surprise 
me." 

"  Does  it  not  strike  you  as  funny  ? "  asked 
the  colonel,  recovering. 

"No.  It  is  —  it  is  almost  tragic.  But  per 
haps,"  she  continued,  with  a  fine  point  of  irony, 
"  since  you  make  so  light  of  the  matter,  you 
will  be  good  enough  to  return  to  Mrs.  Harmon 
the  price  of  the  hat  purchased  by  her  half-witted 
boy  for  your  ward." 


92  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

"  Don't  call  him  half-witted,  Rachel,"  said  the 
colonel.  "  It's  not  so  bad  as  that,  you  know." 

"I  cannot  agree  with  you,"  replied  his  sister. 
"  Only  an  idiot  would  think  of  rushing  into  a 
shop  where  a  lady  is  buying  something,  and 
suddenly  paying  for  it.  You  must  admit  that, 
Richard.  Only  an  idiot  could  do  such  a  thing." 

"I  have  done  just  such  a  thing  myself," 
observed  Wimpole,  thoughtfully,  for  he  remem 
bered  the  miniature  he  had  bought  for  Helen 
that  afternoon.  "  I  suppose  I  was  an  idiot, 
since  you  say  —  " 

"  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind,  my  dear !  How 
can  you  accuse  me  of  calling  you  an  idiot  ? 
Really,  Richard,  you  behave  very  strangely 
to-day !  I  don't  know  what  can  be  the  matter 
with  you.  First,  you  manage  to  make  Sylvia 
cry  her  eyes  out  —  Heaven  knows  what  dread 
ful  thing  you  said  to  her !  And  now  you  delib 
erately  accuse  me  of  calling  you  an  idiot.  If 
this  sort  of  thing  goes  on  much  longer,  there 
will  be  an  end  of  our  family  happiness." 

"  This  is  not  one  of  my  lucky  days,"  said  the 
colonel,  resignedly,  and  he  laid  down  the  folded 
newspaper.  "  How  much  did  the  hat  cost  ? 
I  will  return  the  money  to  Mrs.  Harmon,  and 
explain." 

Miss  Wimpole  looked  at  him  with  gratitude 
and  admiration  in  her  face. 


A  ROSE  OP  YESTERDAY  93 

"  It  was  eighty  francs,"  she  answered.  "  Rich 
ard,  I  did  not  call  you  an  idiot.  In  the  first 
place,  it  would  have  been  totally  untrue,  and  in 
the  second  place,  it  would  have  been  —  what 
shall  I  say  ?  It  would  have  been  very  vulgar 
to  call  you  an  idiot,  Richard.  It  is  a  vulgar 
expression." 

"  It  might  have  been  true,  my  dear,  but  I 
certainly  never  knew  you  to  say  anything  vul 
gar.  On  the  other  hand,  I  really  did  not  assert 
that  you  applied  the  epithet  to  me.  I  applied 
it  to  myself,  rather  experimentally.  And  poor 
Archie  Harmon  is  not  so  bad  as  that,  either." 

"If  he  is  not  idiotic  —  or  —  or  something  like 
it,  why  do  you  say  '  poor '  Archie  ?  " 

"Because  I  am  sorry  for  him,"  returned  the 
colonel.  "  And  so  are  you,"  he  added  presently. 

Miss  Wimpole  considered  the  matter  for  a 
few  seconds ;  then  she  slowly  nodded,  and  came 
up  to  him. 

"  I  am,"  she  said.     "  Richard,  kiss  me." 

That  was  always  the  proclamation  of  peace, 
not  after  strife,  for  they  never  quarrelled,  but 
at  the  close  of  an  argument.  It  was  done  in 
this  way.  The  colonel  rose,  and  stood  before 
his  sister ;  then  both  bent  their  heads  a  little, 
and  as  their  cool  grey  cheeks  touched,  each 
kissed  the  air  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  other's  ear.  They  had  been  little  chil- 


94  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

dren  together,  and  their  mother  had  taught 
them  to  '  kiss  and  make  friends/  as  good 
children  should,  whenever  there  had  been  any 
difference ;  and  now  they  were  growing  old 
together,  but  they  had  never  forgotten,  in 
nearly  fifty  years,  to  '  kiss  and  make  friends ' 
when  they  had  disagreed.  What  is  childlike 
is  not  always  childish. 

The  colonel  resumed  his  seat,  and  there  was 
silence  for  a  few  minutes.  The  folded  news 
paper  lay  on  the  table  unread,  and  he  looked 
at  it,  scarcely  aware  that  he  saw  it. 

"  I  think  Archie  Harmon  must  have  fallen 
in  love  with  Sylvia,"  he  said  at  last.  "  That 
is  the  only  possible  explanation.  She  has  grown 
up  since  he  saw  her  last,  and  so  has  he,  though 
his  mind  has  not  developed  much,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  at  all,  I  should  say,"  answered  Miss 
Wimpole.  "  But  I  wish  you  would  not  sug 
gest  such  things.  The  mere  idea  makes  me 
uncomfortable." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  colonel,  thoughtfully. 
"We  will  not  talk  about  it." 

Suddenly  he  knew  what  he  was  looking  at, 
and  he  read  the  first  head-lines  on  the  paper, 
just  visible  above  the  folded  edge.  The  words 
were  '  Harmon  Sane,'  printed  in  large  capitals. 
In  a  moment  he  had  spread  out  the  sheet. 

The  big  letters  only  referred  to  a  short  tele- 


A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  95 

gram,  lower  down.  "  It  is  reported  on  good 
authority  that  Henry  Harmon,  who  has  been 
an  inmate  of  the  Bloomingdale  Insane  Asylum 
for  some  years,  is  recovering  rapidly,  and  will 
shortly  be  able  to  return  to  his  numerous  friends 
in  perfect  mental  health." 

That  was  all.  The  colonel  searched  the  paper 
from  beginning  to  end,  in  the  vain  hope  of  find 
ing  something  more,  and  read  the  little  para 
graph  over  and  over  again.  There  was  no 
possibility  of  a  mistake.  There  had  never  been 
but  one  Henry  Harmon,  and  there  could  cer 
tainly  be  but  one  in  the  Bloomingdale  asylum. 
The  news  was  so  sudden  that  Wimpole  felt  his 
heart  stand  still  when  he  first  read  it,  and  as  he 
thought  of  it  he  grew  cold,  and  shivered  as 
though  he  had  an  ague. 

It  had  been  easier  to  think  of  Harmon's  pos 
sible  recovery  before  he  had  seen  that  scar  on 
Helen's  forehead.  For  many  years  he  had  borne 
the  thought  that  the  woman  he  had  silently  loved 
so  long  was  bound  to  a  man  little  better  than  a 
beast ;  but  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
she  might  have  had  much  to  bear  of  which  he 
had  known  nothing,  even  to  violence  and  phys 
ical  danger.  The  knowledge  had  changed  him 
within  the  last  hour,  and  the  news  about  Har 
mon  now  hardened  him  all  at  once  in  his  anger, 
as  hot  steel  is  chilled  when  it  has  just  reached 


96  A  ROSE  OF    YESTERDAY 

the  cutting  temper,  and  does  not  change  after 
that. 

The  colonel  was  as  honourable  a  man  as  ever 
shielded  a  woman's  good  name,  or  rode  to  meet 
an  enemy  in  fair  fight.  He  was  chivalrous  with 
all  the  world,  and  quixotic  with  himself.  He 
had  charity  for  the  ways  of  other  men,  for  he 
had  seen  enough  to  know  that  many  things 
were  done  by  men  whom  no  one  would  dare  to 
call  dishonourable,  which  he  would  not  have  done 
to  save  his  own  life.  He  understood  that  such  a 
lasting  love  as  his  was  stronger  than  himself,  yet 
he  himself  had  been  so  strong  that  he  had  never 
yielded  even  to  its  thoughts,  nor  ever  allowed 
the  longing  for  a  final  union  with  Helen  at  all 
costs  to  steal  upon  his  unguarded  imagination. 

He  was  not  tempted  beyond  his  strength, 
indeed,  and  in  his  apparent  perfection,  that 
must  be  remembered.  In  all  those  years  of 
his  devoted  friendship  Helen  had  never  let  him 
guess  that  she  could  have  loved  him  once,  much 
less  that  she  loved  him  now,  as  he  did  her,  with 
the  same  resolution  to  hide  from  her  inward 
eyes  what  she  could  not  tear  from  her  inmost 
heart.  But  it  is  never  fair  to  say  that  if  a  man 
had  been  placed  in  a  certain  imaginary  position, 
he  might  have  been  weak.  So  long  as  he  has 
not  broken  down  under  the  trials  and  burdens 
of  real  life,  he  has  a  right  to  be  called  strong. 


A   ROSE   OP   YESTERDAY  97 

The  colonel  set  no  barrier,  however,  against 
the  devotion  to  Helen's  welfare  which  he  might 
honourably  feel  and  show.  In  day-dreams  over 
old  books  he  had  envied  those  clean  knights  of 
a  younger  time,  who  fought  for  wives  not  theirs 
so  openly  and  bravely,  and  so  honestly  that  the 
spotless  women  for  whom  they  faced  death  took 
lustre  of  more  honour  from  such  unselfish  love. 
And  for  Helen's  sake  he  had  longed  for  some 
true  circumstance  of  mortal  danger  in  which  to 
prove  once  more  how  well  and  silently  an  honest 
man  can  die  to  save  an  innocent  woman. 

But  those  were  dreams.  In  acts  he  had  done 
much,  though  never  half  of  what  he  had  always 
wished  to  do.  The  trouble  had  all  come  little 
by  little  in  Helen's  existence,  and  there  had  not 
been  one  great  deciding  moment  in  which  his 
hand  or  head  could  have  saved  her  happiness. 

Now  it  seemed  as  though  the  time  were  full, 
and  as  if  he  might  at  last,  by  one  deed,  cast  the 
balance  by  the  scale  of  happiness.  He  did  not 
know  how  to  do  it,  nor  whither  to  turn,  but  he 
felt,  as  he  sat  by  the  table  with  the  little  news 
paper  in  his  hand,  that  unless  he  could  prevent 
Harmon  from  coming  back  to  his  wife,  his  own 
existence  was  to  turn  out  a  miserable  failure,  his 
love  a  lie,  and  his  long  devotion  but  a  worthless 
word. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  leave  Lucerne  that 


98  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

night  and  reach  home  in  the  shortest  possible 
time.  He  would  see  Harmon  and  tell  him  what 
he  thought,  and  force  from  him  a  promise  to 
leave  Helen  in  peace,  some  unbreakable  promise 
which  the  man  should  not  be  able  to  deny,  some 
sort  of  bond  that  should  have  weight  in  law. 

The  colonel's  nostrils  quivered,  and  his  steady 
grey  eyes  fixed  themselves  and  turned  very 
light  as  he  thought  of  the  interview  and  of  the 
quiet,  hard  words  he  would  select.  Each  one 
of  them  should  be  a  retribution  in  itself.  He 
was  the  gentlest  of  men,  but  under  great  provo 
cation  he  could  be  relentless. 

What  would  Harmon  answer  ?  The  colonel 
grew  thoughtful  again.  Harmon  would  ask 
him,  with  an  intonation  that  would  be  an  in 
sult  to  Helen,  what  right  Wimpole  had  acquired 
to  take  Helen's  part  against  him,  her  lawful 
husband.  It  would  be  hard  to  answer  that, 
having  no  right  of  his  own  to  fight  her  battles, 
least  of  all  against  the  man  she  had  married. 

He  might  answer  by  reminding  Harmon  of 
old  times.  He  might  say  that  he  at  least  re 
signed  the  hope  of  that  right,  when  Harmon 
had  been  his  friend,  because  he  had  believed 
that  it  was  for  Helen's  happiness. 

That  would  be  but  a  miserably  unsatisfactory 
answer,  though  it  would  be  the  truth.  The 
colonel  did  not  remember  that  he  had  ever 


A   EOSE   OF   YESTERDAY  99 

wished  to  strike  a  man  with  a  whip  until  the 
present  moment.  But  the  sight  of  the  cut  on 
Helen's  forehead  had  changed  him  very  quickly. 
He  was  not  sure  that  he  could  keep  his  hands 
from  Harmon  if  he  should  see  him.  And  slowly 
a  sort  of  cold  and  wrathful  glow  rose  in  his  face, 
and  he  felt  as  though  his  long,  thin  fingers  were 
turning  into  steel  springs. 

Miss  Wimpole  had  taken  up  a  book  and  was 
reading.  She  heard  him  move  in  his  chair,  and 
looked  up  and  saw  his  expression. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Richard  ? " 
she  enquired,  in  surprise. 

"  Why  ?  "     He  started  nervously. 

"  You  look  like  the  destroying  angel,"  she 
observed  calmly.  "  I  suppose  you  are  grad 
ually  beginning  to  be  angry  about  Sylvia's  hat, 
as  I  was.  I  don't  wonder." 

"  Oh  yes  —  Sylvia's  hat ;  yes,  yes,  I  remem 
ber."  The  colonel  passed  his  hand  over  his 
eyes.  "  I  mean,  it  is  perhaps  the  heat.  It's  a 
warm  day.  I'll  go  to  my  room  for  a  while." 

"  Yes,  do,  my  dear.  You  behave  so  strangely 
to-day  —  as  if  you  were  going  to  be  ill." 

But  the  colonel  was  already  gone,  and  was 
stalking  down  the  corridor  with  his  head  high, 
his  eyes  as  hard  as  polished  grey  stones,  and  his 
nervous  hands  clenched  as  they  swung  a  little 
with  his  gait. 


100  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

His  sister  shook  her  head  energetically,  then 
slowly  and  sadly,  as  she  watched  him  in  the 
distance. 

"How  much  more  gracefully  we  grow  old 
than  men ! "  she  said  aloud,  and  took  up  her 
book  again. 


CHAPTER   VI 

HELEN  had  not  seen  the  paragraph  about 
Harmon.  She  rarely  read  newspapers,  and 
generally  trusted  to  other  people  to  learn  what 
they  contained.  The  majority  read  papers  for 
amusement,  or  for  the  sort  of  excitement  pro 
duced  on  nervous  minds  by  short,  strong  shocks 
often  repeated.  There  are  persons  who  ponder 
the  paper  daily  for  half  an  hour  in  absorbed 
silence,  and  then  lift  up  their  voices  and  cackle 
out  all  they  have  read,  as  a  hen  runs  about  and 
cackles  when  she  has  laid  an  egg.  They  fly  at 
every  one  they  see,  an  unnatural  excitement  in 
every  tone  and  gesture,  and  ask  in  turn  whether 
each  friend  has  heard  that  this  one  is  engaged 
to  be  married,  and  that  another  is  dead  and 
has  left  all  his  money  to  a  hospital.  When  they 
have  asked  all  the  questions  they  can  think 
of,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  they  relapse 
into  their  normal  condition,  and  become  again 
as  other  men  and  women  are.  Very  few  really 
read  the  papers  in  order  to  follow  the  course  of 
events  for  the  mere  sake  of  information.  Mrs. 

101 


102  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

Harmon  was  more  or  less  indifferent  to  things 
that  neither  directly  concerned  her  nor  appealed 
to  her  tastes  and  sympathies. 

Her  letters  were  brought  to  her  before  she 
had  left  the  sitting-room  after  the  colonel  had 
gone  away,  and  she  looked  at  the  addresses  on 
them  carelessly,  passing  them  from  one  hand  to 
the  other  as  one  passes  cards.  One  arrested  her 
attention,  among  the  half-dozen  or  so  which  she 
had  received.  It  wras  the  regular  report  from 
the  asylum,  posted  on  the  first  of  the  month. 
But  it  was  thicker  than  usual ;  and  when  she 
tore  open  the  envelope,  rather  nervously  and 
with  a  sudden  anticipation  of  trouble,  a  second 
sealed  letter  dropped  from  the  single  folded 
sheet  contained  in  the  first.  But  even  that  one 
sheet  was  full,  instead  of  bearing  only  the  few 
lines  she  always  received  to  tell  her  that  there 
was  no  change  in  her  husband's  condition. 

There  had  been  a  change,  and  a  great  one. 
Since  last  writing,  said  the  doctor,  Harmon  had 
suddenly  begun  to  improve.  At  first  he  had 
merely  seemed  more  quiet  and  patient  than 
formerly ;  then,  in  the  course  of  a  few  days, 
he  had  begun  to  ask  intelligent  questions,  and 
had  clearly  understood  that  he  had  been  insane 
for  some  time  and  was  still  in  an  asylum.  He 
had  rapidly  learned  the  names  of  the  people 
about  him,  and  had  not  afterwards  confused 


A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY  103 

them,  but  remembered  them  with  remarkable 
accuracy.  Day  by  day  he  had  improved,  and 
was  still  improving.  He  had  enquired  about 
the  state  of  his  affairs,  and  had  wished  to  see 
one  or  two  of  his  old  friends.  More  than  once 
he  had  asked  after  his  wife,  and  had  evidently 
been  glad  to  hear  that  she  was  well.  Then  he 
had  written  a  letter  to  her,  which  the  doctor 
immediately  forwarded.  So  far  as  it  was  pos 
sible  to  form  a  judgment  in  the  case,  the 
improvement  seemed  to  promise  permanent  re 
covery  ;  though  no  one  could  tell,  of  course, 
whether  a  return  to  the  world  might  not  mean 
also  a  return  to  the  unfortunate  habit  which 
had  originally  unbalanced  Harmon's  mind,  but 
from  which  he  was  safe  as  long  as  he  remained 
where  he  was. 

It  was  not  easy  for  Helen  to  read  to  the  end 
of  such  a  letter :  it  shook  in  her  hands  as  she 
went  on  from  one  sentence  to  the  next,  and  the 
sealed  envelope  slipped  from  her  knees  to  the 
floor  while  she  was  reading.  When  she  had 
got  to  the  end,  she  stared  a  moment  at  the 
signature,  and  then  folded  the  sheet,  almost 
unconsciously,  and  drew  her  nail  sharply  along 
the  folds,  as  though  she  would  make  the  paper 
feel  what  she  felt,  and  suffer  as  she  suffered,  in 
every  nerve  of  her  body,  and  in  every  secret 
fibre  of  her  soul. 


104  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

She  had  not  believed  a  recovery  possible.  Now 
that  it  was  a  fact,  she  knew  how  utterly  beyond 
probability  she  had  thought  it ;  and  immediately 
the  great  problem  rose  before  her,  confusing,  vast, 
terrifying.  But  before  she  faced  it  she  must 
read  Harmon's  letter. 

It  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  and  she  had  to  look 
for  it  and  find  it  and  pick  it  up.  The  hand 
writing  was  large,  somewhat  ornamental,  yet 
heavy  in  parts  and  not  always  regular.  As 
she  glanced  at  the  address,  she  remembered 
how  she  had  disliked  the  writing  when  she 
had  first  seen  it,  at  a  time  when  she  had  seen 
much  to  admire  in  Harmon  himself.  Now  she 
did  not  like  to  touch  the  envelope  on  which  he 
had  written  her  name,  and  she  unreasoningly 
feared  the  contact  of  the  sheet  it  held,  as  of 
something  that  might  defile  her  and  must  surely 
hurt  her  cruelly.  The  hand  that  had  traced  the 
characters  on  the  paper  was  the  hand  that  had 
struck  her  and  left  its  mark  for  all  her  life. 
And  as  she  remembered  the  rest,  an  enormous 
loathing  of  the  man  who  was  still  her  husband 
took  possession  of  her,  so  that  she  could  not 
open  the  letter  for  a  few  moments. 

It  was  at  once  a  loathing  of  bodily  disgust, 
like  a  sickness,  and  a  mental  horror  of  a  creat 
ure  who  was  so  far  from  her  natural  nobility 
that  it  frightened  her  to  know  how  she  hated 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  105 

him,  and  she  began  to  fear  the  letter  itself,  lest 
it  should  make  some  great  change  in  her  for 
which  she  should  at  last  hate  herself  also.  The 
spasm  ran  all  through  her,  as  the  sight  of  some 
very  disgusting  evil  thing  violently  disturbs  body 
and  mind  at  the  same  time. 

The  temptation  to  destroy  the  letter  unread 
came  upon  her  with  all  possible  force,  and  the 
vision  of  a  return  to  peace  was  before  her  eyes, 
as  though  the  writing  were  already  burned 
and  beyond  her  power  to  recover.  But  that 
would  be  cowardly,  and  she  was  brave.  With 
drawn  lips,  pale  cheeks,  and  knitted  brows  she 
opened  it,  took  out  the  folded  contents,  and 
began  to  read.  As  though  to  remind  her  of  the 
place  where  he  was,  and  of  all  the  circumstances 
from  first  to  last,  the  name  of  the  asylum  was 
printed  at  the  head  of  each  sheet  in  small, 
businesslike  letters. 

She  began  to  read  : 

MY  DEAR  HELEN,  —  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear 
directly  from  me,  I  suppose,  and  I  can  hardly  expect 
that  you  will  be  pleased,  though  you  are  too  good  not  to 
be  glad  that  I  am  better  after  my  long  illness.  I  have 
a  great  many  things  to  write  to  you,  and  no  particular 
right  to  hope  that  yo\\  will  read  them.  Will  you?  I 
hope  so,  for  I  do  not  mean  to  write  again  until  I  get  an 
answer  to  this  letter.  But  if  you  do  read  this  one,  please 
believe  that  I  am  quite  in  my  right  senses  again,  and 
that  I  mean  all  I  say.  Besides,  the  doctor  has  written 


106  A   EOSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

to  you.  He  considers  me  almost  '  safe '  now.  I  mean, 
safe  to  remain  as  I  am. 

It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  write  to  you.  You  must  hate 
me,  of  course.  God  knows,  I  have  given  you  reason 
enough  to  wish  that  I  might  stay  here  for  the  rest  of  my 
life.  You  are  a  very  good  woman,  and  perhaps  you  will 
forgive  me  for  all  I  have  done  to  hurt  you.  That  is  the 
main  thing  I  wanted  to  say.  I  want  to  ask  your  pardon 
and  forgiveness  for  everything,  from  beginning  to  end. 

'  Everything '  is  a  big  word,  I  know.  There  has  been 
a  great  deal  during  these  many  years,  —  a  great  deal 
more  than  I  like  to  think  of ;  for  the  more  I  think  of  it, 
the  less  I  see  how  you  can  forgive  even  the  half,  much 
less  forget  it. 

I  was  not  myself,  Helen.  You  have  a  right  to  say 
that  it  was  my  fault  if  I  was  not  myself.  I  drank  hard. 
That  is  not  an  excuse,  I  know ;  but  it  was  the  cause  of 
most  of  the  things  I  did.  No  woman  can  ever  under 
stand  how  a  man  feels  who  drinks,  and  has  got  so  far 
that  he  cannot  give  it  up.  How  should  she  ?  But  yo\i 
know  that  most  men  cannot  give  it  up,  and  that  it  is  a 
sort  of  disease,  and  can  be  treated  scientifically.  But  I  do 
not  mean  to  make  excuses.  I  only  ask  your  forgiveness, 
and  in  order  to  forgive  me  you  will  find  better  excuses 
for  me  than  I  could  invent  for  myself.  I  throw  myself 
upon  your  kindness,  for  that  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do. 

They  say  that  it  would  not  be  quite  safe  for  me  to 
leave  the  asylum  for  another  month  or  two,  and  I  am 
quite  resigned  to  that ;  for  the  life  is  quiet  here,  and  I 
feel  quiet  myself  and  hate  the  idea  of  excitement.  I  sup 
pose  I  have  had  too  much  of  it. 

But  by  and  by  they  will  insist  upon  my  leaving,  when 
I  am  considered  quite  cured ;  and  then  I  want  to  go  back 
to  you,  and  try  to  make  you  happy,  and  do  my  best  to 
make  up  to  you  for  all  the  harm  I  have  done  you. 


A   ROSE   OF  YESTERDAY  107 

Perhaps  you  think  it  is  impossible,  but  I  am  very  much 
changed  since  you  saw  me. 

I  know  what  I  am  asking,  dear  Helen.  Do  not  think 
I  ask  it  as  though  it  were  a  mere  trifle.  But  I  know 
what  you  are  and  what  you  have  done.  You  could  have 
got  a  divorce  over  and  over  again,  and  I  believe  you  could 
now  if  you  liked.  It  is  pretty  easy  in  some  states,  and 
I  suppose  I  could  not  find  much  to  say  in  defence.  Yet 
you  have  not  done  it.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  have 
ever  thought  of  it. 

If  you  think  of  it  now  that  I  want  to  come  back  to 
you  and  try  to  do  better,  and  make  you  happy,  for  God's 
sake  give  me  another  chance  before  you  take  any  step. 
Give  me  one  more  chance,  Helen,  for  the  sake  of  old 
times.  You  used  to  like  me  once,  and  we  were  very 
happy  at  first.  Then  —  well,  it  was  all  my  fault,  it  was 
every  bit  of  it  my  fault,  and  I  Avould  give  my  soul  to 
undo  it.  If  you  will  forgive  me,  Ave  can  try  together 
and  begin  over  again,  and  it  shall  all  be  different,  for 
I  will  be  different. 

Can  we  not  try  ?  Will  you  try  ?  It  will  be  easy  if 
you  will  only  let  us  begin.  It  is  not  as  if  we  should 
have  other  troubles  to  deal  with,  for  we  have  plenty  of 
friends  and  plenty  of  money,  and  I  will  do  the  rest.  I 
solemnly  promise  that  I  will,  if  you  will  forgive  me  and 
begin  over  again.  I  know  it  must  seem  almost  impossi 
ble.  It  would  be  quite  impossible  for  any  other  woman, 
though  you  can  do  it  if  you  will. 

I  shall  wait  for  your  answer,  before  I  write  again, 
though  it  will  seem  a  very  long  time,  and  I  am  very 
anxious  about  it.  If  it  is  what  I  hope  it  will  be,  perhaps 
you  will  cable  a  few  words,  even  one  word.  l  Forgiven ' 
is  only  one  word.  Will  you  not  say  it  ?  Will  you  not 
give  me  one  chance  more  ?  Oh,  Helen  dear,  for  God's 
sake,  do !  H. 


108  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

Helen  read  the  letter  to  the  end,  through 
every  phrase  and  every  repetition.  Then  the 
fight  began,  and  it  was  long  and  bitter,  a  bat 
tle  to  death,  of  which  she  could  not  see  the 
issue. 

The  man  wrote  in  earnest,  and  sincerely  meant 
what  he  said.  No  one  could  read  the  words  and 
doubt  that.  Helen  believed  all  he  had  written, 
so  far  as  his  intention  was  concerned,  but  she 
could  not  cut  his  life  in  two  and  leave  out  of 
the  question  the  man  he  had  been,  in  order  to 
receive  without  fear  or  disgust  the  man  he  pro 
fessed  himself  to  be.  That  was  too  much  to  ask 
of  any  woman  who  had  suffered  what  she  had 
of  neglect,  of  violence,  of  shame. 

'No  one  could  tell,'  the  doctor  wrote, 
'whether  a  return  to  the  world  might  not 
mean  also  a  return  to  the  unfortunate  habit ' 
—  no  one  could  tell  that.  And  Harmon  himself 
wrote  that  most  men  could  not  give  it  up,  that 
it  was  a  disease,  and  that  no  woman  could  under 
stand  it.  What  possible  surety  could  he  give 
that  it  should  never  get  hold  of  him  again  ? 
None.  But  that  was  only  a  small  matter  in 
the  whole  question. 

If  she  had  ever  loved  him,  perhaps  if  she 
could  have  felt  that  he  had  ever  loved  her  truly, 
it  would  have  been  different.  But  she  could 
not.  Why  had  he  married  her?  For  her 


A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY  109 

beauty.  The  shame  of  it  rose  in  her  eyes  as 
she  sat  alone,  and  she  could  not  help  turning 
her  face  from  the  light. 

For  love's  sake,  even  for  an  old  love,  outraged 
long  ago  and  scarred  past  recognizing,  she  could 
have  forgiven  much.  Old  memories,  suddenly 
touched,  are  always  more  tender  than  we  have 
thought  they  were,  till  the  tears  rise  for  them, 
and  the  roots  of  the  old  life  stir  in  the  heart. 

Helen  had  nothing  of  that.  She  had  made 
the  great  mistake  of  marrying  a  man  whom  she 
had  not  loved,  but  whom  she  had  admired,  and 
perhaps  believed  in,  more  than  she  understood. 
She  had  married  him  because  he  seemed  to  love 
her  very  much,  and  the  thought  of  being  so 
loved  was  pleasant.  She  had  soon  found  out 
what  such  love  meant,  and  by  and  by  she  had 
seen  how  traces  of  it  survived  in  Henry  Har 
mon,  when  all  thought  of  honouring  her,  or 
even  of  respecting  her,  was  utterly  gone. 

A  bitter  laugh  rang  through  the  quiet  room, 
and  she  started,  for  it  was  her  own  voice.  She 
was  to  forgive !  Did  he  know  what  he  was 
asking,  and  for  what  things  he  was  praying 
forgiveness  ?  Yet  when  he  was  sober  he  had 
generally  remembered  what  he  had  done  when 
he  had  been  drunk.  That  is  to  say,  he  had 
seemed  to  have  the  faculty  of  remembering 
what  he  chose  to  recall,  and  of  forgetting 


110  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

everything  else.  She  was  to  forgive  what  he 
chose  to  remember ! 

'  Oh,  Helen  dear,  for  God's  sake,  do  ! '  She 
could  see  the  last  written  words  of  his  letter 
before  her  eyes,  though  the  sheet  was  folded  and 
bent  double  in  her  tightly  closed  hand.  He 
meant  it,  and  it  was  an  appeal  for  mercy.  She 
hated  herself  for  having  laughed  so  cruelly  a 
moment  earlier.  There  was  a  cry  in  the  words, 
quite  different  from  all  he  had  written  before 
them.  It  did  not  touch  her,  it  hardly  appealed 
to  her  at  all,  but  somehow  it  gave  him  the  right 
to  be  heard,  for  it  was  human. 

Then  she  went  over  all  he  said,  though  it 
hurt  her.  She  was  not  a  woman  of  quick  im 
pulses,  and  she  knew  that  what  was  left  of  her 
life  was  in  the  balance.  Even  he  seemed  to 
acknowledge  that,  for  he  spoke  of  a  possibility 
of  freedom  for  her  by  divorce.  To  speak  so 
easily  of  it,  he  must  have  thought  of  it  often, 
and  that  meant  that  it  was  really  an  easy 
matter,  as  Colonel  Wimpolc  had  said.  It  was 
in  her  power,  and  she  had  free  will.  He  knew 
that  she  had  a  choice,  and  that  she  could  either 
take  him  back,  now  that  he  was  cured,  or  make 
it  utterly  out  of  the  question  for  him  to  approach 
her.  He  said  as  much,  when  he  implored  her 
to  give  him  one  more  chance  '  before  taking  any 
step.'  She  went  over  and  over  it  all,  for  hours. 


A   HOSE   OF    YESTERDAY  111 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  she  opened  the 
blinds,  collected  her  letters,  and  then  sat  down 
again,  no  nearer  to  a  decision  than  she  had 
been  at  first.  A  servant  came  and  told  her 
that  Colonel  Wimpole  was  downstairs.  He  had 
written  a  word  on  his  card,  asking  to  see  her 
again. 

Her  first  impulse  was  the  natural  one.  She 
would  let  him  come  in  and  she  would  lay  the 
whole  matter  before  him,  as  before  the  best 
friend  she  had  in  the  world,  and  ask  him  how 
she  should  act.  There  was  not  in  all  the  world 
a  man  more  honourable  and  just.  She  would 
let  him  come  to  her. 

The  wrords  were  on  her  lips,  while  the  servant 
stood  in  the  open  door,  waiting  for  her  answer. 
She  checked  herself  with  an  effort.  She  wrote 
a  line  and  gave  it  to  the  man. 

She  wrould  not  see  Wimpole  just  then,  for  it 
would  not  be  fair  to  him  nor  perhaps  quite  just 
to  Harmon.  Wimpole  loved  her,  though  he  was 
quite  unaware  that  she  knew  it.  She  believed 
firmly  that  when  he  had  advised  her  that  very 
afternoon  to  divorce  her  husband,  he  was  think 
ing  only  of  her  happiness ;  but  he  had  advised 
it,  all  the  same,  just  because  he  believed  that 
Harmon  might  recover.  He  could  not  change 
his  mind  now  that  what  he  feared  for  her  was 
taking  place.  How  could  he?  He  would  use 


112  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

every  argument  in  his  power,  and  he  would  find 
many  good  ones,  against  her  returning  to  her 
husband.  He  could  influence  her  against  her 
free  will,  and  far  more  than  he  could  guess, 
because  she  loved  him  secretly  as  much  as  he 
loved  her.  It  was  bitter  not  to  see  him,  and 
tell  him,  and  ask  his  help;  it  was  desperately 
hard,  but  as  soon  as  she  saw  that  it  was  right, 
she  wrote  the  words  that  must  send  him  away, 
before  she  could  have  time  to  hesitate.  Deep  in 
her  heart,  too,  there  was  a  thought  for  him. 
Loving  her  as  he  did,  it  would  not  be  easy  for 
him,  either,  to  go  into  the  whole  matter.  His 
honour  and  his  love  would  have  to  fight  it  out. 
So  she  sent  him  away. 

Then  Archie  came  into  the  room,  vague  and 
childish  at  first,  but  with  an  odd  look  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  began  to  talk  to  her  about  Sylvia 
Strahan  in  a  way  that  frightened  her,  little  by 
little,  as  he  went  on. 

"Marry  me  to  her,  mother,"  he  said  at  last, 
as  though  asking  for  the  simplest  thing.  "  I 
want  to  be  married,  and  I  want  Sylvia.  I 
never  saw  any  other  girl  whom  I  wanted." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THERE  are  times  when  trouble  accumulates 
as  an  avalanche,  or  like  water  in  one  of  those 
natural  intermittent  springs  that  break  out 
plentifully,  and  dry  up  altogether  in  a  sort  of 
alternation.  But  the  spring  has  its  regular 
period,  and  trouble  has  not,  and  in  an  avalanche 
of  disasters  it  is  impossible  to  say  at  any  mo 
ment  whether  the  big  boulders  have  all  passed 
in  the  sliding  drift  of  smaller  stuff,  or  whether 
the  biggest  of  all  may  not  be  yet  coming. 

There  are  days  in  a  lifetime  which  decide  all 
the  rest,  and  sometimes  explain  all  that  has 
gone  before,  happy  days,  or  days  of  tears,  as  the 
case  may  be.  Perhaps  they  are  the  most  inter 
esting  days  to  describe,  after  all,  for  they  are  the 
ones  which  generally  terminate  a  period  in  ex 
istence.  But  many  say  that  in  real  life  sit 
uations,  as  they  are  called,  never  have  any 
satisfactory  termination,  and  that  the  story 
which  is  most  true  of  men  and  women  is  that 
one  which  has  neither  beginning  nor  end.  The 
fact  is  that  what  appears  to  be  the  beginning  is 

i  113 


114  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

often  in  reality  the  termination  of  a  long  series 
of  events.  Novels  often  end  in  marriage,  yet 
real  life  frequently  begins  there.  There  is  a 
very  old  proverb  to  that  effect. 

On  such  days  all  sorts  of  things  happen  that 
never  occurred  before  and  perhaps  never  occur 
again,  and  every  one  who  has  had  one  or  two 
such  short  and  eventful  periods  of  confusion 
can  remember  how  a  host  of  unforeseen  trifles 
thrust  themselves  forward  to  disturb  him.  It 
was  as  though  nothing  could  turn  out  right,  as 
if  nobody  could  take  a  message  without  a  mis 
take,  as  if  the  post  and  the  telegraph  had  con 
spired  together  to  send  letters  and  telegrams 
to  wrong  addresses,  and  altogether  all  things, 
including  the  most  sober  and  reliable  institu 
tions,  seem  to  work  backwards  against  results 
instead  of  for  them.  Those  are  bad  times. 
When  they  last  long,  people  come  to  grief. 
When  they  are  soon  over,  people  laugh  at 
them.  When  they  decide  a  whole  life,  as  they 
sometimes  do,  people  can  afterwards  trace  the 
causes  of  happiness  or  disaster  to  some  very 
small  lucky  coincidence  or  unfortunate  mistake 
over  which  they  themselves  had  no  control. 

When  Colonel  Wimpole  had  left  Helen  so 
abruptly,  he  had  looked  upon  his  going  away  as 
a  mere  interruption  of  his  visit,  necessary,  be 
cause  he  could  not  be  sure  of  controlling  himself 


A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  115 

just  then,  but  not  meant  to  last  any  length  of 
time.  But  after  so  suddenly  learning  the  change 
in  Harmon's  condition,  he  would  have  waited 
till  the  evening  before  going  back,  if  his  sister 
had  not  been  so  absurdly  nervous  about  the  price 
of  the  hat,  insisting  that  he  should  go  at  once 
and  return  the  money.  He  had  gone  to  his 
own  room  in  a  disturbed  state  of  mind  and  had 
stayed  there  an  hour,  after  which  Miss  Wimpole, 
judging  that  he  must  be  sufficiently  rested,  had 
knocked  at  his  door  and  urged  him  to  go  at  once 
to  see  Mrs.  Harmon.  As  he  had  no  very  good 
reason  to  give  for  refusing  to  do  so,  he  had  made 
the  attempt  and  had  been  refused  admittance. 
He  went  for  a  walk  along  the  lake  and  came 
back  again  after  an  hour,  and  wrote  on  his  card 
a  special  request. 

"  May  I  see  you  now  ?  It  is  about  a  rather 
awkward  little  matter." 

It  was  growing  late.  Helen  reflected  that  he 
could  not  stay  long  before  his  own  dinner  time 
and  hers,  that  he  evidently  had  something  espe 
cial  to  say,  and  that  she  was  certainly  strong 
enough  to  keep  her  own  counsel  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  if  she  made  up  her  mind  to  do  so. 
Besides,  it  must  seem  strange  to  him  to  be  re 
fused  a  second  time ;  he  would  infer  that  some 
thing  was  wrong  and  would  ask  questions  when 
they  next  met.  She  decided  to  see  him. 


116  A   KOSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

His  face  was  grave,  and  he  was  quite  calm 
again.  As  he  took  her  hand  and  spoke,  there 
was  a  sort  of  quiet  tenderness  in  his  manner 
and  tone,  a  little  beyond  what  he  usually 
showed,  perceptible  to  her,  who  longed  for  it, 
though  it  could  hardly  have  been  noticed  by 
any  one  else. 

"It  is  rather  an  awkward  little  matter,"  he 
said,  repeating  the  words  he  had  written. 

Then  he  saw  her  face  in  the  twilight,  and  he 
guessed  that  she  had  seen  the  newspaper. 

"You  are  in  trouble,"  he  said  quickly. 

She  hesitated  and  turned  from  him,  for  she 
had  forgotten  that  her  face  must  betray  her 
distress. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  but  she  said  no  more 
than  that. 

"  Can  I  help  you  ? "  he  asked  after  a  short 
pause. 

"  Please  do  not  ask  me." 

She  sat  down,  and  Wimpole  sighed  audibly  as 
he  took  his  seat  at  a  little  distance  from  her. 
He  knew  that  she  must  have  seen  the  paragraph 
about  Harmon's  recovery. 

"Then  I  will  explain  my  errand,"  he  said. 
"May  I?" 

It  seemed  rather  a  relief  to  have  so  small  a 
matter  ready  to  hand. 

"  Yes.     It  will  not  take  long,  will  it  ?  "  she 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  117 

asked  rather  nervously,  for  she  felt  how  his 
presence  tempted  her  to  confidence.  "  It  —  it 
will  soon  be  dinner  time,  you  know." 

"  I  shall  not  stay  long,"  said  the  colonel, 
quietly.  "  It  is  rather  an  awkward  little  mat 
ter.  You  know  Archie  was  with  you  this  morn 
ing  when  I  saw  you  in  the  shop  and  got  that 
miniature." 

Helen  looked  at  him  suddenly  with  a  change 
of  expression,  expecting  some  new  trouble. 

"Yes,  Archie  was  with  us.  What  is  it?" 
Her  voice  was  full  of  a  new  anxiety. 

"It  is  nothing  of  any  great  importance," 
answered  Wimpole,  quickly,  for  he  saw  that 
she  was  nervous.  "  Only,  he  went  out  by  him 
self  afterwards,  and  came  across  my  sister  and 
Sylvia  in  a  milliner's  shop  —  " 

"What  was  he  doing  in  a  milliner's  shop?" 
interrupted  Helen,  in  surprise. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  colonel.  "I  fancy 
he  saw  them  through  the  window  and  went  in 
to  speak  to  them.  Sylvia  was  trying  on  a  hat, 
you  know,  and  she  liked  it,  and  Archie,  without 
saying  anything,  out  of  pure  goodness  of  heart, 
I  suppose  —  " 

He  hesitated.  On  any  other  day  he  would 
have  smiled,  but  just  now  he  was  as  deeply  dis 
turbed  as  Helen  herself,  and  the  absurd  incident 
of  the  hat  assumed  a  tremendous  importance. 


118  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

"  Well  ?  What  did  he  do  ?  "  Helen's  nerves 
were  on  edge,  and  she  spoke  almost  sharply. 

"  He  paid  for  the  hat,"  answered  Wimpole, 
with  an  air  of  profound  sorrow,  and  even  peni 
tence,  as  if  it  had  been  all  his  fault.  "And  then 
he  went  off,  before  they  knew  it." 

Helen  bit  her  lip,  for  it  trembled.  He  had 
not  told  the  story  very  clearly  or  connectedly, 
but  she  understood.  Archie  had  just  been  talk 
ing  to  her  strangely  about  Sylvia,  and  she  had 
seen  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  his  old 
playmate,  and  she  was  afraid.  And  now,  she 
was  horribly  ashamed  for  him.  It  was  so 
stupid,  so  pitifully  stupid. 

The  colonel,  guessing  what  greater  torment 
was  tearing  at  her  heart,  sat  still  in  a  rather 
dejected  attitude,  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  but 
not  watching  her. 

The  matter  which  had  brought  him  was  cer 
tainly  not  very  terrible  in  itself,  but  it  stirred 
and  quickened  all  the  ever-growing  pain  for  her 
son  which  was  a  part  of  her  daily  life.  It 
knitted  its  strength  to  that  of  all  the  rest,  to 
hurt  her  cruelly,  and  the  torture  was  more  than 
she  could  bear. 

She  turned  suddenly  in  her  seat  and  half 
buried  her  face  against  the  back  of  the  chair,  so 
that  Wimpole  could  not  see  it,  and  she  bit  the 
coarse  velvet  savagely,  trying  to  be  silent  and 


A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  119 

tearless  till  he  should  go  away.  But  he  knew 
what  she  was  doing.  If  he  had  not  spoken,  she 
could  still  have  kept  back  the  scalding  tears 
awhile.  But  he  did  speak,  and  very  gently. 

"  Helen  —  dear  Helen —  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  My  heart  is  breaking,"  she  said,  almost 
quietly. 

But  then  the  tears  came,  and  she  shook  once 
or  twice,  like  an  animal  that  has  a  deep 
wound  but  cannot  die.  The  tears  came  slowly, 
and  burned  her  like  drops  of  fire.  She  kept  her 
face  turned  away. 

Wimpole  was  beside  her  and  held  her  passive 
hand.  It  twitched  painfully  as  it  lay  in  his, 
and  every  agonized  movement  of  it  shot  through 
him,  but  he  could  not  say  anything  at  first. 
Besides,  she  knew  he  was  there  and  would  help 
her  if  he  could.  At  last  he  spoke  his  thought. 

"  I  will  keep  him  from  you,"  he  said.  "  He 
shall  not  come  near  you." 

Her  hand  tightened  upon  his,  instantly,  and 
she  sat  up  in  her  chair,  turning  her  face  to  him, 
quite  white  in  the  dusk,  by  the  open  window. 

"  Then  you  know  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  It  is  in  the  Paris  paper  to-day.  But 
it  is  only  a  report.  I  do  not  believe  it  is  true." 

She  rose,  mastering  herself,  as  she  withdrew 
her  hand,  and  steadied  herself  a  moment  against 
the  chair  beside  him. 


120  A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

"It  is  true/'  she  said.  " He  has  recovered. 
He  has  written  to  me." 

Wimpole  felt  as  if  he  had  been  condemned  to 
death  without  warning. 

"  When  ?  "  he  managed  to  ask. 

"  I  got  the  letter  this  afternoon." 

Their  voices  answered  each  other,  dull  and 
colourless  in  the  gloom,  and  for  some  moments 
neither  spoke.  Helen  went  to  the  window  and 
leaned  upon  the  broad  marble  sill,  breathing  the 
evening  air  from  the  lake,  and  Wimpole  fol 
lowed  her.  The  electric  lamps  were  lighted  in 
the  street,  glaring  coldly  out  of  the  grey  dusk, 
and  many  people  were  moving  slowly  along  the 
pavement  below,  in  little  parties,  some  gay,  some 
silent. 

"  That  is  why  I  did  not  let  you  come  up," 
said  Helen,  after  a  long  time.  "  But  now  — 
since  you  know  —  "  She  stopped,  still  hesitat 
ing,  and  he  tried  to  see  her  expression,  but  there 
was  not  enough  light. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  question,  not  press 
ing  her,  but  waiting. 

"  Since  you  know,"  she  answered  at  last, 
"you  can  guess  the  rest." 

A  spasm  of  pain  half  choked  her,  and  Wim 
pole  put  out  his  hand  to  lay  it  gently  upon  her 
arm,  but  drew  it  back  again.  He  had  never 
done  even  that  much  in  all  those  years,  and  he 
would  not  do  it  now. 


A   KOSE   OF   YESTERDAY  121 

"  I  will  keep  him  from  you,"  he  said  again. 

"No.  You  must  not  do  that."  Her  voice 
was  steady  again.  "  He  will  not  come  to  me 
against  my  will." 

Wimpole  turned  sharply  as  he  leaned  on  the 
window-sill  beside  her,  for  he  did  not  under 
stand. 

"  You  cannot  possibly  be  thinking  of  writing 
to  him,  of  letting  him  come  back  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  That  is  what  I  am  think 
ing  of  doing." 

She  hardly  dared  think  that  she  still  could 
hesitate,  now  that  Wimpole  was  beside  her.  If 
he  had  not  come,  it  might  have  been  different. 
But  he  was  close  to  her  now,  and  she  kneAV  how 
long  and  well  he  had  loved  her.  Alone,  she 
could  have  found  reasons  for  refusing  ever  to 
see  Harmon  again,  but  they  lost  their  look  of 
honour  now  that  this  man,  who  was  everything 
to  her,  was  standing  at  her  elbow.  Exaggerat 
ing  her  danger,  she  feared  lest  Wimpole  should 
influence  her,  even  unintentionally,  if  she  left 
the  question  open.  And  he,  for  her  own  happi 
ness  and  honourably  setting  all  thoughts  of 
himself  aside,  believed  that  he  ought  to  use 
whatever  influence  he  had,  to  the  utmost. 

"  You  must  not  do  it,"  he  said.  "  I  implore 
you  not  to  think  of  it.  You  will  wreck  your 
life." 


122  A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

She  did  not  move,  for  she  had  known  what  he 
would  say. 

"  If  you  are  my  friend,"  she  answered,  after  a 
pause,  "  you  should  wish  me  to  do  what  is  right." 

It  was  a  trite  commonplace,  but  she  never 
tried  to  be  original,  at  any  time,  and  just  then 
the  words  exactly  expressed  her  thought.  He 
resented  it. 

"  You  have  done  more  than  enough  of  that 
sort  of  right  already.  It  is  time  you  thought 
a  little  of  yourself.  I  do  not  mean  only  of  your 
happiness,  but  of  your  safety.  You  are  not  safe 
with  that  man.  He  will  drink  again,  and  he 
may  kill  you." 

She  turned  her  white  face  deliberately  towards 
him  in  the  gloom. 

"And  do  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  that?"  she 
asked  slowly. 

There  was  a  sort  of  reproach  in  the  tone,  and 
a  great  good  pride  with  it.  Wimpole  did  not 
know  what  to  say,  and  merely  bent  his  head 
gravely. 

"  Besides,"  she  added,  "  he  is  in  earnest.  He 
is  sorry.  He  wras  mad  then,  and  he  asks  me  to 
forgive  him  now.  How  can  I  refuse  ?  He  was 
really  mad,  really  insane.  No  one  can  deny  it. 
Shall  I?" 

"  You  can  forgive  him  without  going  back  to 
him.  Why  should  you  risk  your  life?" 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  123 

"  It  is  the  only  way  of  showing  him  that 
I  forgive  him,  and  my  life  will  not  be  in 
danger." 

"  Do  you  think  that  you  can  ever  be  happy 
again,  if  you  go  back  to  him?"  asked  Wimpole. 

"  My  happiness  is  not  the  question.  The  only 
thing  that  matters  is  to  do  right." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  right  is  more  or  less 
dependent  on  its  results  —  " 

"  Never !  "  cried  Helen,  almost  fiercely,  and 
drawing  back  a  little  against  the  side  of  the 
window.  "  If  one  syllable  of  that  were  true, 
then  we  could  never  know  whether  we  were 
doing  right  or  not,  till  we  could  judge  the  result. 
And  the  end  would  justify  the  means,  always, 
and  there  would  be  no  more  right  and  wrong  at 
all  in  the  world." 

"  But  when  you  know  the  results  ?  "  objected 
Wimpole.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  it  may  be 
different." 

"  Then  it  is  fear  !  Then  one  is  afraid  to  do 
right  because  one  knows  that  one  risks  being 
hurt !  What  sort  of  morality  would  that  be  ? 
It  would  be  contemptible." 

"  But  suppose  that  it  is  not  only  yourself  who 
may  be  hurt,  but  some  one  else  ?  One  should 
think  of  others  first.  That  is  right,  too."  He 
could  not  help  saying  that  much. 

Helen  hesitated  a  moment. 


124  A   KOSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  presently.  "  But  no 
one  else  is  concerned  in  this  case." 

"  I  will  leave  your  friends  out  of  the  ques 
tion,"  said  Wimpole.  "Do  you  think  it  will 
do  Archie  any  good  to  live  under  the  same  roof 
with  his  father?" 

Helen  started  perceptibly. 

"  Oh,  why  did  you  say  that !  "  she  exclaimed 
in  a  low  voice,  and  as  she  leaned  over  the  win 
dow-sill  again  she  clasped  her  hands  together  in 
a  sort  of  despairing  way.  "  Why  did  you  say 
that! "  she  repeated. 

Wimpole  was  silent,  for  he  had  not  at  first 
realized  that  he  had  found  a  very  strong  argu 
ment.  As  yet,  being  human,  she  had  thought 
only  of  herself,  in  the  first  hours  of  her  trouble. 
He  had  recalled  all  her  past  terrors  for  her 
unfortunate  son,  and  the  memory  of  all  she 
had  done  to  keep  him  out  of  his  father's  way 
in  old  days.  He  had  been  a  mere  boy,  then,  and 
it  had  been  just  possible,  because  his  half-devel 
oped  mind  was  not  suspicious.  Now  that  he 
was  grown  up,  it  would  be  another  matter. 
The  prospect  was  hideous  enough,  if  Harmon 
should  take  a  fancy  to  the  young  man,  and 
make  him  his  companion,  and  then  fall  back 
into  his  old  ways. 

"  "Why  did  you  say  it  ?  Why  did  you  make 
me  think  of  that  ?  "  Helen  asked  the  questions 


A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  125 

almost  piteously.  "  I  should  have  to  send  Archie 
away  —  somewhere,  where  he  would  be  safe." 

"  How  could  he  be  safe  without  you  ?  "  The 
argument  was  pitilessly  just. 

But,  after  all,  her  life  and  happiness  were  at 
stake.  Wimpole  saw  right  in  everything  that 
could  withhold  her  from  the  step  to  which  she 
had  evidently  made  up  her  mind. 

"And  if  I  refuse  to  go  back  to  my  husband, 
what  will  become  of  him?"  she  asked,  still  clasp 
ing  her  hands  hard  together. 

"He  could  be  properly  taken  care  of,"  sug 
gested  Wimpole. 

"And  would  that  be  forgiveness?"  Helen 
turned  to  him  again  energetically. 

"It  would  be  wisdom,  at  all  events." 

"Ah,  now  you  come  back  to  your  argument!" 
Her  voice  changed.  "  You  are  pressing  me  to 
do  what  is  wise,  not  what  is  right.  Don't  do 
that !  Please  don't  do  that !  " 

"  Do  you  forgive  him  ? "  asked  the  colonel, 
very  gravely. 

Again  she  paused  before  answering  him. 

"  Why  should  you  doubt  it  ? "  she  asked  in 
her  turn.  "Don't  you  see  that  I  wish  to  go 
back  to  him?" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  It  is  not  the  same 
thing.  You  are  a  very  good  woman,  and  by 
sheer  force  of  goodness  you  could  make  an 


126  A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

enormous  sacrifice   for   the  sake  of  what   you 
thought  right." 

"  And  would  not  that  be  forgiveness  ? " 
"  No.  If  you  freely  forgave  him,  it  would  be 
no  sacrifice,  for  you  would  believe  in  him  again. 
You  would  have  just  the  same  faith  in  Harmon 
which  you  had  on  the  day  you  married  him.  If 
forgiveness  means  anything,  it  means  that  one 
takes  back  the  man  who  has  hurt  one,  on  the 
same  real,  inward  terms  with  oneself  on  which 
one  formerly  lived  with  him.  You  cannot  do 
that,  for  it  would  not  be  sane." 

"  No,  I  cannot  quite  do  that,"  Helen  answered, 
after  a  moment's  thought.  "It  would  not  be 
true  to  say  that  I  had  even  thought  I  could. 
But  then,  if  you  put  it  in  that  way,  it  would  be 
hard  to  forgive  any  one,  and  it  would  generally 
be  foolish.  There  is  something  wrong  about 
your  way  of  looking  at  it." 

"I  am  not  a  woman,"  said  Wimpole,  simply. 
"  That  is  what  is  the  matter.  At  the  same  time, 
I  do  not  see  how  you,  as  a  woman,  are  ever  going 
to  reconcile  what  you  believe  to  be  your  duty  to 
Harmon  with  what  is  certainly  your  duty  to 
your  son." 

"  I  must,"  said  Helen.     "  I  must." 
"  Then  you  must  do  it  before  you  write  to 
Harmon,  for  afterwards  it  will   be   impossible. 
You  must  decide  first  what  you  will  do  with 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  127 

Archie  to  keep  him  out  of  danger.  When  you 
have  made  up  your  mind  about  that,  if  you 
choose  to  sacrifice  yourself,  nobody  can  prevent 
you.  At  least  you  will  not  be  ruining  him,  too." 

He  saw  no  reason  for  not  putting  the  case 
plainly,  since  what  he  said  was  true.  Yet  as  he 
felt  his  advantage,  he  knew  that  by  pressing  it 
he  was  increasing  her  perplexity.  In  all  his  life 
he  had  never  been  in  so  difficult  a  position.  She 
stood  close  beside  him,  her  arm  almost  touching 
his,  and  he  had  loved  her  all  his  life,  as  few  men 
love,  with  an  honesty  and  purity  that  were  more 
than  quixotic.  What  there  was  left,  he  could 
have  borne  for  her  sake,  even  to  seeing  her 
united  again  with  Henry  Harmon.  But  the 
thought  of  the  risk  she  was  running  was  more 
than  he  could  bear.  He  would  use  argument, 
stratagem,  force,  anything,  to  keep  her  out  of 
such  a  life ;  and  when  he  had  succeeded  in  sav 
ing  her,  he  would  be  capable  of  denying  himself 
even  the  sight  of  her,  lest  his  conscience  should 
accuse  him  of  having  acted  for  himself  rather 
than  for  her  alone. 

He  remembered  Harmon's  face  as  he  had  last 
seen  it,  coarse,  cunning,  seamed  with  dissipation, 
and  he  looked  sideways  at  Helen,  white,  weary, 
bruised,  a  fast  fading  rose  of  yesterday,  as  she 
had  called  herself.  The  thought  of  Harmon's 
touch  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 


128  A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

"  You  shall  not  do  it !  "  he  exclaimed,  after  a 
long  silence.  "  I  will  make  it  impossible." 

Almost  before  he  spoke  the  last  words,  he 
had  repented  them.  Helen  drew  herself  up  and 
faced  him,  one  hand  on  the  window-sill. 

"  Colonel  Wimpole,"  she  said,  "  I  know  that 
you  have  always  been  my  best  friend.  But  you 
must  not  talk  in  that  way.  I  cannot  allow  even 
you  to  come  between  me  and  what  I  think  is 
right." 

He  bent  his  head  a  little. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  answered,  in  a  low 
voice.  "I  should  have  done  it  —  not  said  it." 

"  I  hope  you  will  never  think  of  it  again," 
said  Helen. 

She  left  the  window,  and  felt  in  the  dark  for 
matches,  on  the  table,  to  light  a  small  candle  she 
used  for  sealing  letters.  It  cast  a  faint  light  up 
to  her  sad  face.  Wimpole  had  stayed  by  the 
window,  and  watched  her  now,  while  she  looked 
towards  him  over  the  little  flame. 

"  Please  go,  now,"  she  said  gravely.  "  I  can 
not  bear  to  talk  about  this  any  longer." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AFTER  the  door  had  closed,  Helen  stood  a 
moment  by  the  table,  motionless.  Then  she  sat 
down  by  the  feeble  light  of  the  taper  and  wrote 
upon  a  sheet  of  paper  her  husband's  address 
and  one  word  — l  forgiven.'  She  looked  at  the 
writing  fixedly  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
rang  the  bell. 

"  Have  this  telegram  sent  at  once,  please,  and 
bring  me  a  lamp  and  dinner,"  she  said  to  the 
servant. 

With  the  lamp  came  Archie,  following  it  with 
a  sort  of  interest,  as  children  do. 

"  You  must  have  been  in  the  dark  ever  so 
long,  mother,"  he  said,  and  just  then  he  saw 
her  white  face.  "  You  are  not  looking  all  right," 
he  observed. 

Helen  smiled,  from  force  of  habit,  rather 
wearily.  The  servant  began  to  set  the  table, 
moving  stealthily,  as  though  he  were  meditat 
ing  some  sudden  surprise  which  never  came. 
He  was  a  fairly  intelligent  Swiss,  with  an  im 
mense  pink  face  and  very  small  blue  eyes. 

K  129 


130  A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

Helen  watched  him  for  a  moment,  and  sighed. 
The  man  was  intellectually  her  son's  superior, 
and  she  knew  it.  Any  one  else  might  have 
smiled  at  the  thought,  as  grotesque,  but  it  had 
for  her  the  cruel  vividness  of  a  misfortune  that 
had  saddened  all  of  her  life  which  her  husband 
had  not  embittered.  She  envied,  for  her  son, 
the  poor  waiter's  little  powers  of  mental  arith 
metic  and  memory. 

"What's  the  matter,  mother?"  asked  Archie, 
who  sat  looking  at  her. 

"  Nothing,  dear,"  she  answered,  rousing  her 
self,  and  smiling  wearily  again.  "  I  am  a  little 
tired,  perhaps.  It  has  been  a  hot  day." 

"Has  it?  I  didn't  notice.  I  never  do  —  at 
least,  not  much.  I  say,  mother,  let's  go  home  ! 
I'm  tired  of  Europe,  and  I  know  you  are.  Let's 
all  go  home  together  —  we  and  the  Wimpoles." 

"  We  shall  be  going  home  soon,"  said  Helen. 

"  I  thought  you  meant  to  go  to  Carlsbad  first. 
Wasn't  it  to  Carlsbad  we  were  going?" 

"Yes,  dear.  But  —  here  conies  dinner  —  we 
will  talk  about  it  by  and  by." 

They  sat  down  to  table.  In  hotels  abroad 
Helen  always  dined  in  her  rooms,  for  she  was 
never  quite  sure  of  Archie.  He  seemed  strangely 
unconscious  of  his  own  defect  of  mind,  and  was 
always  ready  to  enter  boldly  into  conversation 
with  his  neighbours  at  a  foreign  hotel  dinner 


A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY  131 

table.  His  childish  ignorance  had  once  or  twice 
caused  her  such  humiliation  as  she  did  not  feel 
called  upon  to  bear  again. 

"  I  don't  know  why  we  shouldn't  talk  about 
it  now,"  began  Archie,  when  he  had  eaten  his 
soup  in  silence,  and  the  servant  was  changing 
his  plate. 

"We  shall  be  alone,  after  dinner,"  answered 
his  mother. 

"  Oh,  the  waiter  doesn't  care !  He'll  never 
see  us  again,  you  know,  so  why  shouldn't  we 
say  anything  we  like  before  him  ? " 

Mrs.  Harmon  looked  at  her  son  and  shook 
her  head  gravely,  which  was  an  admonition  he 
always  understood. 

"Did  you  see  anything  you  liked,  to-day?" 
she  asked  incautiously,  by  way  of  changing  the 
conversation. 

"Rather!"  exclaimed  Archie,  promptly.  "I 
met  Sylvia  Strahan  —  jukes  !  " 

Helen  shuddered,  as  she  saw  the  look  in  his 
face  and  the  glitter  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  wish  you  could  remember  not  to  say 
'jukes'  every  other  minute,  Archie,"  she  said, 
for  the  thousandth  time. 

"  Do  you  think  Sylvia  minds  when  I  say 
'jukes'?"  asked  the  young  man,  suddenly. 

"  I  am  sure  she  thinks  it  a  very  ugly  and 
senseless  word." 


132  A  EOSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

"Does  she?  Really?"  He  was  silent  for  a 
few  moments,  pondering  the  question.  "  Well," 
he  resumed  at  last,  in  a  regretful  tone,  "  I've 
always  said  it,  and  I  like  it,  and  I  don't  see  any 
harm  in  it.  But,  of  course,  if  Sylvia  doesn't 
like  it,  I've  got  to  give  it  up,  that's  all.  I'm 
always  going  to  do  what  Sylvia  likes,  now,  as 
long  as  I  live.  And  what  you  like,  too,  mother," 
he  added  as  an  apologetic  and  dutiful  after 
thought.  "  But  then,  you're  pretty  sure  to  like 
the  same  things,  after  all." 

"  You  really  must  not  go  on  in  this  way  about 
Sylvia,  my  dear,"  said  Helen.  "  It  is  too 
absurd." 

Archie's  heavy  brows  met  right  across  his 
forehead  as  he  looked  up  with  something  like  a 
glare  in  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  was  suddenly 
thick  and  indistinct,  when  he  answered. 

"  Don't  call  it  absurd,  mother.  I  don't  under 
stand  what  it  is,  but  it's  stronger  than  I  am. 
I  don't  want  anything  but  Sylvia.  Things  don't 
amuse  me  any  more.  It  was  only  to-day  —  " 

He  stopped,  for  he  was  going  to  tell  her  how  he 
had  found  no  pleasure  in  his  toys,  neither  in  the 
blocks,  nor  in  the  tin  soldiers,  nor  in  the  little 
papier-mache  lady  and  gentleman  in  the  painted 
cart.  But  he  thought  she  did  not  know  about 
them,  and  he  checked  himself  in  a  sudden  shame 
which  he  had  never  felt  before.  A  deep  red 


A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY  133 

blush  spread  over  his  dark  face,  and  he  looked 
down  at  his  plate. 

"  I'm  a  man,  now,"  he  said,  through  his  teeth, 
in  a  rough  voice. 

After  that,  he  was  silent  for  a  time,  but  Helen 
watched  him  nervously.  She,  too,  saw  that  he 
was  a  man,  with  almost  less  than  a  boy's  mind, 
and  her  secret  terror  grew.  She  could  not 
eat  that  evening,  but  he  did  not  notice  her. 
They  dined  quickly  and  then  they  sat  down  to 
gether,  as  they  usually  did,  quite  near  to  each 
other  and  side  by  side.  She  could  sometimes 
teach  him  little  things  which  he  remembered, 
when  everything  was  quiet.  He  generally  be 
gan  to  talk  of  something  he  had  seen,  and  she 
always  tried  to  make  him  understand  it  and 
think  about  it.  But  this  evening  he  said  noth 
ing  for  a  long  time,  and  she  was  glad  of  his 
silence.  When  she  thought  of  the  telegram  she 
had  sent,  she  had  a  sharp  pain  at  her  heart,  and 
once  or  twice  she  started  a  little  in  her  chair. 
But  Archie  did  not  notice  her. 

"  I  say,  mother,"  he  began,  looking  up,  "  what 
becomes  of  all  the  things  one  forgets  ?  Do  they 
—  do  they  go  to  sleep  in  one's  head  ?  " 

Mrs.  Harmon  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  for 
it  was  by  far  the  most  thoughtful  question  he 
had  ever  asked.  She  could  not  answer  it  at 
once,  and  he  went  on. 


134  A   ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

"Because  you  always  tell  me  to  try  and 
remember,  and  you  think  I  could  remember  if 
I  tried  hard  enough.  Then  you  must  believe 
the  things  are  there.  You  wouldn't  expect  me 
to  give  you  what  I  hadn't  got,  would  you  ?  That 
wouldn't  be  fair." 

"  No,  certainly  not,"  answered  his  mother, 
considerably  puzzled. 

"  Then  you  really  think  that  I  don't  forget. 
You  must  think  I  don't  remember  to  remember. 
Something  like  that.  I  can't  explain  what  I 
mean,  but  you  understand." 

"  I  suppose  so,  my  dear.  Something  like 
that.  Yes,  perhaps  it  is  just  as  you  say,  and 
things  go  to  sleep  in  one's  head  and  one  has  to 
wake  them  up.  But  I  know  that  I  can  often 
remember  things  I  have  forgotten  if  I  try  very 
hard." 

"  I  can't.  I  say,  mother,  I  suppose  I'm  stupid, 
though  you  never  tell  me  so.  I  know  I'm  differ 
ent  from  other  people,  somehow.  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  just  what  it  is.  I  don't  want 
to  be  different  from  other  people.  Of  course 
I  know  I  could  never  be  as  clever  as  you,  nor 
the  colonel.  But  then  you're  awfully  clever, 
both  of  you.  Father  used  to  call  me  an  idiot, 
but  I'm  not.  I  saw  an  idiot  once,  and  his  eyes 
turned  in,  and  he  couldn't  shut  his  mouth,  and 
he  couldn't  talk  properly." 


A  ROSE   OF  YESTEilDAY  135 

"Are  you  sure  that  your  father  ever  called 
you  an  idiot,  Archie?" 

Helen's  lips  were  oddly  pale,  and  her  voice 
was  low.  Archie  laughed  in  a  wooden  way. 

"Oh,  yes!  I'm  quite  sure,"  he  said.  "I 
remember,  because  he  hit  me  on  the  back  of  the 
head  with  the  knob  of  his  stick  when  he  said  so. 
That  was  the  first  time.  Then  he  got  into  the 
way  of  saying  it.  I  wasn't  very  big  then." 

Helen  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes,  and 
in  her  mind  she  saw  the  word  'forgiven'  as 
she  had  written  it  after  his  name,  —  'Henry 
Harmon,  New  York.  Forgiven.'  It  had  a 
strange  look.  She  had  not  known  that  he  had 
ever  struck  the  boy  cruelly. 

"  Why  did  you  never  tell  me  ? "  she  asked 
slowly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  would  have  been  like 
a  cry-a-baby  to  go  running  to  you.  I  just 
waited." 

Helen  did  not  guess  what  was  coming. 

"Did  he  strike  you  again  with  the  knob  of 
his  stick?"  she  asked. 

"Lots  of  times,  with  all  sorts  of  things. 
Once,  when  you  were  off  somewhere  for  two 
or  three  days  on  a  visit,  he  came  at  me  with 
a  poker.  That  was  the  last  time.  I  suppose 
he  had  been  drinking  more  than  usual." 

"  What  happened  ?  "  asked  Helen. 


136  A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

"  Oh,  well,  I'd  grown  big  then,  and  I  got  sick 
of  it  all  at  once,  you  know.  He  never  tried  to 
touch  me  again,  after  that." 

Helen  recalled  distinctly  that  very  unusual 
occasion  when  she  had  been  absent  for  a  whole 
week,  at  the  time  of  a  sister's  death.  Harmon 
had  seemed  ill  when  she  had  returned,  and  she 
remembered  noticing  a  great  change  in  his  man 
ner  towards  the  boy  only  a  few  months  before 
he  had  become  insane. 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  hit  him.  I  hit  him  badly,  a  good  many 
times.  Then  I  put  him  to  bed.  I  knew  he 
wouldn't  tell." 

Archie  smiled  slowly  at  the  recollection  of 
beating  his  father,  and  looked  down  at  his  fist. 
Helen  felt  as  though  she  were  going  mad  her 
self.  It  was  all  horribly  unnatural, — the  father's 
cruel  brutality  to  his  afflicted  son,  the  son's  fero 
cious  vengeance  upon  his  father  when  he  had 
got  his  strength. 

"  You  see,"  continued  Archie,  "  I  knew  ex 
actly  how  many  times  he  had  hit  me  altogether, 
and  I  gave  all  the  hits  back  at  once.  That  was 
fair,  anyhow." 

Helen  could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever 
professed  to  be  sure  of  an  exact  number  from 
memory. 

"How    could    you    know    just    how    many 


A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  137 

times  —  "  She  spoke  faintly,  and  stopped,  half 
sick. 

"Blocks,"  answered  Archie.  "I  dropped  a 
little  blot  of  ink  on  one  of  my  blocks  every  time 
he  hit  me.  I  used  to  count  the  ones  that  had 
blots  on  them  every  morning.  When  they  all 
had  one  blot  each,  I  began  on  the  other  side,  till 
I  got  round  again.  Some  had  blots  on  several 
sides  at  last.  I  don't  know  how  many  there 
were,  now ;  but  it  was  all  right,  for  I  used  to 
count  them  every  morning  and  remember  all 
day.  There  must  have  been  forty  or  fifty,  I 
suppose.  But  I  know  it  was  all  right.  I  didn't 
want  to  be  unfair,  and  I  hit  him  slowly  and 
counted.  Oh,"  —  his  eyes  brightened  suddenly, 
— "  I've  got  the  blocks  here.  I'll  go  and  get 
them,  and  we  can  count  them  together.  Then 
you'll  know  exactly." 

Helen  could  not  say  anything,  and  Archie 
was  gone.  She  only  half  understood  what  the 
blocks  were,  and  did  not  care  to  know.  There 
was  an  unnatural  horror  in  it  all,  and  Archie 
spoke  of  it  quite  simply  and  without  any  par 
ticular  resentment.  She  was  still  half  dazed 
when  he  came  back  with  the  mysterious  box 
in  which  he  kept  his  toys. 

He  set  it  down  on  the  floor  at  her  feet  and 
knelt  beside  it,  feeling  for  the  key  in  his 
pocket. 


138  A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

"  I  don't  care  if  you  see  all  the  things  now," 
he  said.  "  They  don't  amuse  me  any  more." 

Nevertheless,  she  saw  the  blush  of  shame  ris 
ing  to  his  forehead  as  he  bent  down  and  put  the 
key  into  the  lock. 

"  I  don't  care,  after  all,"  he  said,  before  he 
lifted  the  lid.  "  It's  only  you,  mother,  and  you 
won't  think  I  was  a  baby  just  because  they 
amused  me.  I  don't  care  for  them  any  more, 
mother.  Indeed  I  don't ;  so  I  may  as  well 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it  and  tell  you.  Besides, 
you  must  see  the  blocks.  All  the  blots  are  there 
still,  quite  plain,  and  we  can  count  them,  and 
then  you'll  always  remember,  though  I  shan't. 
Here  they  are.  I've  carried  them  about  a  long 
time,  you  know,  and  they're  getting  pretty  old, 
especially  the  soldiers.  There  isn't  much  paint 
left  on  them,  and  the  captain's  head's  gone." 

Helen  leaned  forward,  her  elbow  on  her  knees, 
her  chin  resting  on  her  hand,  her  eyes  dim,  and 
her  heart  beating  oddly.  It  seemed  as  though 
nothing  were  spared  her  on  that  day. 

Archie  unpacked  the  toys  in  silence,  and  ar 
ranged  the  blocks  all  on  one  side  in  a  neat  pile, 
while  on  the  other  he  laid  the  soldiers  and  the 
little  cart,  with  the  few  remaining  toys.  Helen's 
eyes  became  riveted  on  the  bits  of  wood.  There 
were  about  twenty  of  them,  and  she  could  plainly 
distinguish  on  them  the  little  round  blots  which 


A  EOSE   OF  YESTERDAY  139 

Archie  had  made,  one  for  each  blow  he  had  re 
ceived.  He  began  to  count,  and  Helen  followed 
him  mechanically.  He  was  very  methodical,  for 
he  knew  that  he  was  easily  confused.  When  he 
had  counted  the  blots  on  each  block,  he  put  it 
behind  him  on  the  floor  before  he  took  another 
from  the  pile.  He  finished  at  last. 

"  Sixty-three  —  ju —  !  "  He  checked  himself. 
"  I  forgot.  I  won't  say  '  jukes '  any  more.  I 
won't.  There  were  sixty-three  in  all,  mother. 
Besides,  I  remember  now.  Yes ;  there  were 
sixty-three.  I  remember  that  it  took  a  long 
time,  because  I  was  afraid  of  not  being 
fair." 

Again  he  smiled  at  the  recollection,  with  some 
satisfaction,  perhaps,  at  his  conscientious  recti 
tude.  With  those  hands  of  his,  it  was  a  won 
der  that  he  had  not  killed  his  father.  Helen 
sat  like  a  stone  figure,  and  watched  him  uncon 
sciously,  while  her  thoughts  ground  upon  each 
other  in  her  heart  like  millstones,  and  her 
breath  half  choked  her. 

He  swept  all  the  blocks  back  in  front  of  him, 
and,  by  force  of  habit,  he  began  to  build  a  little 
house  before  he  put  them  away.  She  watched 
his  strong  hands,  that  could  do  such  childish 
things,  and  the  bend  of  his  athletic  neck.  His 
head  was  not  ill-shaped  nor  defective  under  the 
thick  short  hair. 


140  A   KOSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

"Did  he  always  strike  you  on  the  head, 
Archie? "she  asked  suddenly. 

He  knocked  the  little  house  over  with  a  sweep 
of  his  hand  and  looked  up. 

"  Generally,"  he  said  quietly.  "  But  it  doesn't 
matter,  you  know.  He  generally  went  for  the 
back  of  my  head  because  it  didn't  make  any 
mark,  as  I  have  such  thick  hair,  so  I  hit  him  in 
the  same  place.  It's  all  right.  It  was  quite 
fair.  I  say,  mother,  I'm  going  to  throw  these 
things  away,  now  that  you  know  all  about  them. 
What's  the  good  of  keeping  them,  anyway  ? 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  ever  liked 
them." 

"Give  them  to  me,"  answered  Helen.  "Per 
haps  some  poor  child  might  like  them." 

But  she  knew  that  she  meant  to  keep  them. 

"  Well,  there  isn't  much  paint  on  those  tin 
soldiers,  you  know.  I  don't  believe  any  child 
would  care  for  them  much.  At  least  not  so 
much  as  I  did,  because  I  was  used  to  them.  Of 
course  that  made  a  difference.  But  you  may 
have  them,  if  you  like.  I  don't  want  them  any 
more.  They're  only  in  the  way." 

"  Give  them  to  me,  for  the  present." 

"  All  right,  mother."  And  he  began  to  pack 
the  toys  into  the  box. 

He  did  it  very  carefully  and  neatly,  for  the 
habit  was  strong,  though  the  memory  was  weak. 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  141 

Still  Helen  watched  him,  without  changing  her 
attitude.  He  sighed  as  he  put  in  the  last  of  the 
tin  soldiers. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  really  never  care  for  them 
again,"  he  said. 

He  looked  at  them  with  a  sort  of  affection 
and  touched  some  of  the  things  lightly,  arrang 
ing  them  a  little  better.  Then  he  shut  the  lid 
down,  turned  the  key,  and  held  it  out  to  his 
mother. 

"There  you  are,"  he  said.  "Anyhow,  the 
blocks  helped  me  to  remember.  Sixty-three, 
wasn't  it,  mother  ?  " 

"  Sixty-three,"  repeated  Helen,  mechanically. 

Then,  for  the  second  time  on  that  evening, 
she  turned  her  face  to  the  cushion  of  her  chair, 
and  shook  from  head  to  foot,  and  sobbed  aloud. 
She  had  realized  what  the  number  meant. 
Sixty-three  times,  in  the  course  of  years,  had 
Henry  Harmon  struck  his  son  upon  the  head. 
It  was  strange  that  Archie  should  have  any 
wits  at  all,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  they 
were  not  like  those  of  other  men.  And  it  had 
all  been  a  secret,  kept  by  the  child  first,  then  by 
the  growing  boy,  then  by  the  full-grown  man, 
till  his  thews  and  sinews  had  toughened  upon 
him  and  he  had  turned  and  paid  back  blow  for 
blow,  all  at  once.  And  last  of  all  the  father 
had  struck  her,  with  a  thought  of  revenge,  per- 


142  A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

haps,  as  well  as  in  passion,  because  he  dared  not 
raise  his  hand  against  his  strong  son. 

Again  she  saw  the  words  of  her  telegram, 
'  Henry  Harmon,  New  York.  Forgiven,'  and 
they  were  in  letters  of  fire  that  her  tears  could 
not  quench.  She  had  not  known  how  much  she 
was  forgiving.  Archie  knelt  beside  her  in  won 
der,  for  he  had  never  seen  her  cry  in  his  life. 
He  touched  her  arm  lovingly,  trying  to  see  her 
face,  and  his  own  softened  strangely,  growing 
more  human  as  it  grew  more  childlike. 

"Don't,  mother!  Please  don't  cry  like  that! 
If  I  had  thought  you  would  cry  about  it,  I'd 
never  have  told  you.  Besides,  it  couldn't  have 
hurt  him  so  very  much —  " 

"Him!" 

Helen's  voice  rang  out,  and  she  turned,  with 
a  fierce  light  in  her  angry  eyes.  In  a  quick 
movement  her  arms  ran  round  Archie's  neck 
and  drew  him  passionately  to  her  breast,  and 
she  kissed  his  head,  again  and  again,  always  his 
head,  upon  the  short,  thick  hair,  till  he  won 
dered,  and  laughed. 

When  they  were  quiet  again,  sitting  side  by 
side,  her  battle  began  once  more,  and  she  knew 
that  it  must  all  be  fought  over  on  different 
ground.  She  had  forgiven  Henry  Harmon,  as 
well  as  she  could,  for  her  own  wrongs ;  but 
there  were  others  now,  and  they  seemed  worse 


A   HOSE    OF    YESTERDAY  143 

to  her  than  anything  she  had  suffered.  It  was 
just  to  think  so,  too,  for  she  knew  that  at  any 
time  she  could  have  left  Harmon  without  blame 
or  stain.  It  had  been  in  her  power,  but  she 
had  chosen  not  to  do  it. 

But  the  boy  had  been  powerless  and  silent 
through  long  years.  She  had  never  even 
guessed  that  his  father  had  ever  struck  him 
cruelly.  At  the  merest  suspicion  of  such  a 
thing  she  would  have  turned  upon  her  husband 
as  only  mothers  do  turn,  tigresses  or  women. 
But  Archie  had  kept  his  secret,  while  his 
strength  quietly  grew  upon  him,  and  then  he 
had  paid  the  long  score  with  his  own  hands. 
Out  of  shame,  Harmon  had  kept  the  secret, 
too. 

Yet  she  had  said  in  one  word  that  she  forgave 
him,  and  the  word  determined  the  rest  of  her 
life.  A  suffering,  a  short,  sad  respite,  and  then 
suffering  again ;  that  was  to  sum  the  history  of 
her  years.  She  must  suffer  to  the  end,  more 
and  more. 

And  all  at  once  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
could  not  bear  it.  For  herself  she  might  have 
forgiven  anything.  She  had  pardoned  all  for 
herself,  from  the  first  neglect  to  the  scar  on  her 
forehead.  But  it  was  another  matter  to  forgive 
for  Archie.  Why  should  she  ?  What  justice 
could  there  be  in  that  ?  What  right  had  she 


144  A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

to  absolve  Harmon  for  his  cruelty  to  her 
child  ? 

She  must  ask  Archie  if  he  forgave  his  father. 
She  could  no  longer  decide  the  question  alone, 
and  Archie  had  the  best  of  rights  to  be  con 
sulted.  "VVimpole's  words  came  back  to  her, 
asking  whether  it  could  do  Archie  any  good 
to  be  under  the  same  roof  with  his  father ;  and 
all  at  once  she  saw  that  her  whole  married  life 
had  been  centred  in  her  son  much  more  than 
in  herself. 

Besides,  he  must  be  told  that  his  father  had 
recovered,  for  every  one  must  know  it  soon,  and 
people  would  speak  of  it  before  him,  and  think 
it  very  strange  if  he  were  ignorant  of  it.  She 
hid  from  herself  the  underthought  that  Archie 
must  surely  refuse  to  live  with  his  father,  after 
all  that  had  passed,  and  the  wild  hope  of  escape 
from  what  she  had  undertaken  to  do,  which  the 
suggestion  raised. 

She  sat  silent  and  thoughtful,  her  tears  drying 
on  her  cheeks,  while  her  son  still  knelt  beside 
her.  But  without  looking  at  him,  she  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  her  grasp  tightened  while 
she  was  thinking. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked 
again  and  again. 

At  last  she  let  her  eyes  go  to  his,  and  she 
answered  him. 


A   ROSE   OF  YESTERDAY  145 

"  Your  father  is  well  again.  By  this  time  he 
must  have  left  the  asylum.  Shall  we  go  back 
to  him?" 

"  I  suppose  we  must,  if  he's  all  right,"  an 
swered  Archie,  promptly. 

Helen's  face  fell  suddenly,  for  she  had  ex 
pected  a  strong  refusal. 

" Can  you  forgive  him  for  all  he  did  to  you?" 
she  asked  slowly. 

"I  don't  see  that  there's  much  to  forgive. 
He  hit  me,  and  I  hit  him  just  as  often ;  so  we're 
square.  He  won't  hit  me  now,  because  he's 
afraid  of  me.  I  hate  him,  of  course,  and  he 
hates  me.  It's  quite  fair.  He  thinks  I'm  stu 
pid,  and  I  think  he's  mean ;  but  I  don't  see  that 
there's  anything  to  forgive  him.  I  suppose  he's 
made  so.  If  he's  all  right  again,  I  don't  see  but 
what  we  shall  have  to  go  and  live  with  him 
again.  I  don't  see  what  you're  going  to  do 
about  it,  mother." 

Helen  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  not  sob 
bing  again,  but  thinking.  She  did  not  see  ( what 
she  was  going  to  do  about  it,'  as  Archie  expressed 
the  situation.  If  she  had  not  already  sent  the 
telegram,  it  would  have  been  different.  The 
young  man's  rough  phrases  showed  that  he  had 
not  the  slightest  fear  of  his  father,  and  he  was 
ignorant  of  what  she  herself  had  suffered.  Much 
she  had  hidden  from  him  altogether,  and  his  dul- 


146  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

ness  had  seen  nothing  of  the  rest.  He  supposed, 
if  he  thought  anything  about  it,  that  his  mother 
had  been  unhappy  because  Harmon  drank  hard, 
and  stayed  away  from  home  unaccountably,  and 
often  spoke  roughly  and  rudely  when  he  had 
been  drinking.  To  his  unsensitive  nature  and 
half-developed  mind  these  things  had  seemed 
regrettable,  but  not  so  very  terrible,  after  all. 
Helen  had  been  too  loyal  to  hold  up  Harmon  as 
an  example  of  evil  to  his  son,  and  the  boy  had 
grown  up  accustomed  to  what  disgusted  and 
revolted  her,  as  well  as  ignorant  of  what  hurt 
her ;  while  his  own  unfinished  character  was 
satisfied  with  a  half -barbarous  conception  of 
what  was  fair  so  far  as  he  himself  was  con 
cerned.  He  had  given  blow  for  blow  and 
bruise  for  bruise,  and  on  a  similar  understand 
ing  he  was  prepared  to  return  to  similar  condi 
tions.  Helen  saw  it  all  in  a  flash,  but  she  could 
not  forgive  Harmon. 

"  I  can't !  I  can't ! "  she  repeated  aloud,  and 
she  pressed  Archie's  arm  again. 

"  Can't  —  what,  mother  ? "  he  asked.  "  Can't 
go  back  ?  " 

"  How  can  I,  after  this  ?  How  can  I  ever 
bear  to  see  him,  to  touch  his  hand, — his  hand 
that  hurt  you,  Archie,  —  that  hurt  you  so  much 
more  than  you  ever  dream  of  ?  " 

There  were  tears  in  her  voice  again,  and  again 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  147 

she  pressed  him  close  to  her.  But  he  did  not 
understand. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,  mother,"  he  answered. 
"  Don't  cry  about  me  !  I  made  it  all  right  with 
him  long  ago.  And  I  don't  suppose  he  hurt  me 
more  than  I  dreamed  of,  either.  That's  only  a 
way  of  talking,  you  know.  It  used  to  make 
me  feel  rather  stupid.  But  then,  I'm  stupid 
anyway;  so  even  that  didn't  matter  much." 
And  Archie  smiled  indifferently. 

"  More  than  you  think,  more  than  you  know ! " 
She  kissed  his  hair.  "  It  was  that  —  it  may 
have  been  that  —  it  must  have  been  —  I  know 
it  was  —  " 

She  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  down  again. 

"What?"  he  asked  with  curiosity.  "What 
do  you  mean?  I  don't  understand." 

Helen's  voice  sank  low,  and  she  hardly  seemed 
to  be  speaking  to  her  son. 

"Your  father  made  you  what  you  are,"  she 
said,  and  her  face  grew  cold  and  hard. 

"What?  Stupid?"  asked  Archie,  cheerfully. 
Then  his  face  changed,  too.  "  I  say,  mother," 
he  went  on,  in  another  voice,  "  do  you  think  I'm 
so  dull  because  he  hit  me  on  the  head?" 

Helen  repented  her  words,  scarcely  knowing 
why,  but  sure  that  it  would  have  been  better 
not  to  speak  them.  She  did  not  answer  the 
question. 


148  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

"  That's  what  you  think,"  said  Archie.  "  And 
it's  because  I'm  not  like  other  people  that  you 
say  it's  absurd  of  me  to  want  to  marry  Sylvia 
Strahan,  isn't  it  ?  And  that's  my  father's  doing  ? 
Is  that  what  you  think?" 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  but  none  came  at 
once.  Helen  was  startled  by  the  clear  sequence 
of  ideas,  far  more  logical  than  most  of  his 
reasonings.  It  seemed  as  if  his  sudden  passion 
for  Sylvia  had  roused  his  sluggish  intelligence 
from  its  long  torpor.  She  could  not  deny  the 
truth  of  what  he  said,  and  he  saw  that  she  could 
not. 

"  That's  it,"  he  continued.  "  That's  what  you 
think.  I  knew  it." 

His  brows  knitted  themselves  straight  across 
his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his 
mother's  face,  as  he  knelt  beside  her.  She  had 
not  been  looking  at  him,  but  she  turned  to 
him  slowly  now. 

"  And  that's  why  you  ask  whether  I  can  for 
give  him,"  he  concluded. 

"  Can  you  ? " 

«  No." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  from  his  knees  easily,  by 
one  movement,  and  she  watched  him.  Then 
there  was  a  long  silence  and  he  began  to  walk 
up  and  down. 

Helen  felt  as  if  she  had  done  something  dis- 


A   ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY  149 

loyal,  and  that  he  had  given  the  answer  for 
which  she  had  been  longing  intensely,  as  an 
escape  from  her  decision,  and  as  a  means  of 
freedom  from  bondage  to  come.  She  could  ask 
herself  now  what  right  she  had  to  expect  that 
Archie  should  forgive  his  father.  But,  instead, 
she  asked  what  right  she  could  have  had  to  give 
Archie  so  good  a  reason  for  hating  him,  when 
the  boy  had  not  suspected  that  which,  after  all, 
might  not  be  the  truth.  She  had  made  an  enor 
mous  sacrifice  in  sending  the  message  of  forgive 
ness  for  her  own  wrongs,  but  it  seemed  to  her, 
all  at  once,  that  in  rousing  Archie's  resentment 
for  his  own  injuries  she  had  marred  the  purity 
of  her  own  intention. 

Indeed  she  was  in  no  state  to  judge  herself, 
for  what  Archie  had  told  her  was  a  goad  in  her 
wound,  with  a  terror  of  new  pain. 

"  You  cannot  forgive  him,"  she  said  mechani 
cally  and  almost  to  herself. 

"Why  should  I?"  asked  Archie.  "It  means 
Sylvia  to  me.  How  can  I  forgive  him  that  ? " 

And  suddenly,  without  waiting  for  any  answer, 
he  went  out  and  left  her  alone. 

After  a  long  time,  she  wrote  this  letter  to  her 
husband : 

DEAR  HENRY,  —  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  of  your  recov 
ery,  and  I  have  received  your  letter  to-day,  together  with 
the  doctor's.  I  have  telegraphed  the  one  word  for  which 


150  A  ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

you  asked,  and  you  have  probably  got  the  message  already. 
But  I  must  answer  your  letter  as  well  as  I  can,  and  say  a 
great  many  things  which  I  shall  never  say  again.  If  AVB 
are  to  meet  and  try  to  live  together,  it  is  better  that  I 
should  speak  plainly  before  I  see  you. 

You  asked  a  great  deal  of  me,  and  for  myself  I  have 
done  what  you  asked.  I  do  not  say  this  to  make  it  seem 
as  though  I  were  making  a  great  sacrifice  and  wished  you 
to  admit  it.  We  were  not  happy  together ;  you  say  that 
it  was  your  fault,  and  you  ask  me  to  forgive  you.  If  I 
believed  that  you  had  been  in  full  possession  of  your 
senses  till  you  were  taken  ill,  I  do  not  think  that  for 
giveness  could  be  possible.  You  see,  I  am  frank.  I  am 
sure  that  you  often  did  not  know  what  you  said  and 
did,  and  that  when  you  did  know,  you  could  not  always 
weigh  the  consequences  of  your  words  and  actions.  So 
I  will  try  to  forget  them.  That  is  what  you  mean  by 
being  forgiven,  and  it  is  the  only  meaning  either  you  or 
I  can  put  upon  the  word.  I  will  try  to  forget,  and  I 
will  bear  no  malice  for  anything  in  the  past,  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned.  Never  speak  of  it,  when  we  meet,  and 
I  never  will.  If  you  really  wish  to  try  the  experiment 
of  living  together  again,  I  am  willing  to  attempt  it,  as  an 
experiment. 

But  there  is  Archie  to  be  considered,  and  Archie  will 
not  forgive  you.  By  a  mere  chance,  to-day,  after  I  had 
sent  my  telegram,  he  told  me  that  you  used  to  strike 
him  cruelly  and  often  because  his  dulness  irritated  you. 
You  struck  him  on  the  head,  and  you  injured  his  brain, 
so  that  his  mind  has  never  developed  fully  and  never 
can. 

I  do  not  think  that  if  I  were  a  man,  as  he  is,  I  could 
forgive  that.  Could  you  ?  Do  you  expect  that  I  should, 
being  his  mother  ?  You  cannot.  You  and  he  can  never 
live  under  the  same  roof  again.  It  would  perhaps  be 


A  ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  151 

harder  for  you,  feeling  as  you  must,  than  for  him ;  but 
in  any  case  it  is  not  possible,  and  there  is  only  one 
arrangement  to  be  made.  We  must  put  Archie  in  some 
place  where  he  shall  be  safe  and  healthy  and  happy, 
and  I  will  spend  a  part  of  the  year  with  you  and  a  part 
with  him.  I  will  not  give  him  up  for  you,  and  I  am  not 
willing  to  give  you  up  for  him.  Neither  would  be  right. 
You  are  my  husband,  whatever  there  may  have  been  in 
the  past ;  but  Archie  is  my  child.  It  will  be  harder  for 
me  than  for  him,  too. 

You  say  that  I  might  have  got  a  divorce  from  you, 
and  you  do  me  the  justice  to  add  that  you  believe  I  have 
never  thought  of  it.  That  is  true,  but  it  is  not  a  proof 
of  affection.  I  have  none  for  you.  I  told  you  that  I 
should  speak  plainly,  and  it  is  much  better.  It  would 
be  an  ignoble  piece  of  comedy  on  my  part  to  pretend  to 
be  fond  of  you.  I  was  once.  I  admired  you,  I  suppose, 
and  I  liked  you  well  enough  to  marry  you,  being  rather 
ignorant  of  the  world  and  of  what  people  could  feel.  If 
you  had  really  loved  me  and  been  kind  to  me,  I  should 
have  loved  you  in  the  end.  But,  as  it  turned  out,  I  could 
not  go  on  admiring  you  long,  and  I  simply  ceased  to  like 
you.  That  is  our  story,  and  it  is  a  sad  one.  We  made 
the  great  mistake,  for  we  married  without  much  love  on 
either  side,  and  we  were  very  young. 

But  it  was  a  marriage,  just  the  same,  and  a  bond 
which  I  never  meant  to  break  and  will  not  break  now. 
A  promise  is  a  promise,  whatever  happens,  and  a  vow 
made  before  God  is  ten  times  a  promise.  So  I  always 
mean  to  keep  mine  to  you,  as  I  have  kept  it.  I  will  do 
my  best  to  make  you  happy,  and  you  must  do  your  part 
to  make  it  possible. 

After  all,  that  is  the  way  most  people  live.  True 
love,  lasting  lifetimes  and  not  changing,  exists  in  the 
world,  and  it  is  the  hope  of  it  that  makes  youth  lovely 


152  A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

and  marriage  noble.  Few  people  find  it,  and  the  many 
who  do  not  must  live  as  well  as  they  can  without  it. 
That  is  what  we  must  do.  Perhaps,  though  the  hope  of 
love  is  gone,  we  may  find  peace  together.  Let  us  try. 

But  not  with  Archie.  There  are  things  which  no 
woman  can  forgive  nor  forget.  I  could  not  forgive  you 
this  if  I  loved  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  you  must  not 
expect  it  of  me,  for  it  is  not  in  my  power.  The  harm 
was  not  done  to  me,  but  to  him,  and  he  is  more  to  me 
than  you  ever  were,  and  far  more  to  me  than  myself. 
I  will  only  say  that.  There  can  be  no  need  of  ever 
speaking  about  it,  but  I  want  you  to  understand ;  and 
not  only  this,  but  everything.  That  is  why  I  write 
such  a  long  letter. 

It  must  all  be  perfectly  clear,  and  I  hope  I  have  made 
it  so.  It  was  I  who  suffered  for  the  great  mistake  we 
made  in  marrying,  but  you  are  sorry  for  that,  and  I  say, 
let  us  try  the  experiment  and  see  whether  we  can  live 
together  in  peace  for  the  rest  of  our  lives.  You  are 
changed  since  your  illness,  I  have  no  doubt,  and  you 
will  make  it  as  easy  as  you  can.  At  least,  you  will  do 
your  best,  and  so  shall  I. 

Have  I  repeated  myself  in  this  letter?  At  least,  I 
have  tried  to  be  clear  and  direct.  Besides,  you  know 
me,  and  you  know  what  I  mean  by  writing  in  this  way. 
I  am  in  earnest. 

God  bless  you,  Henry.  I  hope  this  may  turn  out 
well.  HELEN. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  she  had  finished. 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  bell,  meaning  to 
send  her  letter  to  the  post  office  by  a  servant ; 
but  just  then  the  sound  of  laughing  voices  came 
up  to  her  through  the  open  window,  and  she 


A  KOSE  OF  YESTERDAY  153 

did  not  ring.  Looking  out,  she  saw  that  there 
were  still  many  people  in  the  street,  for  it  was 
a  warm  evening.  It  was  only  a  step  from  her 
hotel  to  the  post  office,  and  if  she  went  herself 
she  should  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
positively  that  the  letter  was  safe.  She  put 
on  a  hat  with  a  thick  veil,  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER   IX 

COLONEL  WIMPOLE  looked  positively  old  that 
evening  when  he  went  down  to  dinner  with  his 
sister  and  Sylvia.  His  face  was  drawn  and 
weary  and  the  lids  hung  a  little,  in  small 
wrinkles;  but  down  in  his  grey  eyes  there  was 
a  far-off  gleam  of  danger-light. 

Sylvia  looked  down  when  she  met  him,  and 
she  was  very  silent  and  grave  at  first.  At 
dinner  she  sat  between  him  and  Miss  Wimpole, 
and  for  some  time  she  scarcely  dared  to  glance 
at  him.  He,  on  his  part,  was  too  much  pre 
occupied  to  speak  much,  and  she  thought  he 
was  displeased.  Nevertheless,  he  was  more 
than  usually  thoughtful  for  her.  She  under 
stood  by  the  way  he  sat,  and  even  by  the  half- 
unconscious  shrinking  of  the  elbow  next  to  her, 
that  he  was  sorry  for  her.  At  table,  seated 
close  together,  there  is  a  whole  language  in 
one's  neighbour's  elbow  and  an  unlimited  power 
of  expression  in  its  way  of  avoiding  collisions. 
Very  perceptive  people  understand  that.  Pri 
marily,  in  savage  life,  the  bold  man  turns  his 

164 


A  KOSE   OF   YESTERDAY  155 

elbows  out,  while  the  timid  one  presses  them 
to  his  sides,  as  though  not  to  give  offence  with 
them.  Society  teaches  us  to  put  on  some  little 
airs  of  timidity  as  a  substitute  for  the  modesty 
that  few  feel,  and  we  accordingly  draw  in  our 
elbows  when  we  are  near  any  one.  It  is  ridicu 
lous  enough,  but  there  are  a  hundred  ways  of 
doing  it,  a  hundred  degrees  of  readiness,  unwill 
ingness,  pride,  or  consideration  for  others,  as 
well  as  sympathy  for  their  troubles  or  in  their 
successes,  all  of  which  are  perfectly  natural  to 
refined  people,  and  almost  entirely  unconscious. 
The  movement  of  a  man's  jaws  at  dinner  shows 
much  of  his  real  character,  but  the  movement  of 
his  elbows  shows  with  fair  accuracy  the  degree 
of  refinement  in  which  he  has  been  brought  up. 

Sylvia  was  sure  that  the  colonel  was  sorry  for 
her,  and  the  certainty  irritated  her,  for  she  hated 
to  be  pitied,  and  most  of  all  for  having  done 
something  foolish.  She  glanced  at  Wimpole's 
tired  face,  just  when  he  was  looking  a  little 
away  from  her,  and  she  was  startled  by  the 
change  in  his  features  since  the  early  afternoon. 
It  needed  no  very  keen  perception  to  see  that 
he  was  in  profound  anxiety  of  some  kind,  and 
she  knew  of  nothing  which  could  have  disturbed 
him  deeply  but  her  own  conduct. 

Under  the  vivid  light  of  the  public  dining 
table,  he  looked  old.  That  was  undeniable,  and 


156  A   HOSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

it  was  really  the  first  time  that  Sylvia  had  defi 
nitely  connected  the  idea  of  age  with  him.  Just 
beyond  him  sat  a  man  in  the  early  prime  of 
strength,  one  of  those  magnificent  specimens 
of  humanity  such  as  one  sees  occasionally  in 
travelling  but  whom  one  very  rarely  knows  in 
acquaintance.  He  could  not  have  been  more 
than  twenty-eight  years  old,  straight  in  his  seat, 
broad-shouldered,  with  thick,  close,  golden  hair 
and  splendid  golden  beard,  white  forehead  and 
sunburned  cheeks,  broad,  well-modelled  brows 
and  faultless  nose,  and  altogether  manly  in 
spite  of  his  beauty.  As  he  leaned  forward  a 
little,  his  fresh  young  face  appeared  beside  the 
colonel's  tired  profile,  in  vivid  contrast. 

For  the  first  time,  Sylvia  realized  the  meaning 
of  Wimpole's  words,  spoken  that  afternoon.  He 
might  almost  have  been  her  grandfather,  and  he 
was  in  reality  of  precisely  the  same  age  as  her 
father.  Sylvia  looked  down  again  and  reflected 
that  she  must  have  made  a  mistake  with  herself. 
Youth  can  sometimes  close  its  eyes  to  grey  hair, 
but  it  can  never  associate  the  idea  of  love  with 
old  age,  when  clearly  brought  to  its  percep 
tions. 

For  at  least  five  minutes  the  world  seemed 
utterly  hollow  to  Sylvia,  as  she  sat  there.  She 
did  not  even  wonder  why  she  had  thought  the 
colonel  young  until  then.  The  sudden  dropping 


A  EOSE  OF  YESTERDAY  157 

out  of  her  first  great  illusion  left  a  void  as  big 
and  as  hollow  as  itself. 

She  turned  her  head,  and  looked  once  more, 
and  there,  again,  was  the  glorious,  unseamed 
youth  of  the  stranger,  almost  dazzling  her  and 
making  the  poor  colonel  look  more  than  ever 
old,  with  his  pale,  furrowed  cheeks  and  wrinkled 
eyelids.  She  thought  a  moment,  and  then  she 
was  sure  that  she  could  never  like  such  a  ter 
ribly  handsome  young  man;  and  at  the  same 
instant,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  felt 
that  natural,  foolish,  human  pity  which  only 
extreme  youth  feels  for  old  age,  and  she  won 
dered  why  she  had  not  always  felt  it,  for  it 
seemed  quite  natural,  and  was  altogether  in 
accordance  with  the  rest  of  her  feelings  for  the 
colonel,  with  her  reverence  for  his  perfect  char 
acter,  her  admiration  for  his  past  deeds,  her 
attachment  to  his  quiet,  protective,  wise,  and 
all-gentle  manliness.  That  was  her  view  of  his 
qualities,  and  she  had  to  admit  that  though  he 
had  them  all,  he  was  what  she  called  old.  She 
had  taken  for  love  what  was  only  a  combination 
of  reverence  and  attachment  and  admiration. 
She  realized  her  mistake  in  a  flash,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  core  had  withered  in 
the  fruit  of  the  universe. 

Just  then  the  colonel  turned  to  her,  holding 
his  glass  in  his  hand. 


158  A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

"  We  must  not  forget  that  it  is  your  birthday, 
my  dear,"  he  said,  and  his  natural  smile  came 
back.  "Rachel,"  he  added,  speaking  to  his  sis 
ter  across  the  young  girl,  "  let  us  drink  Sylvia's 
health  on  her  eighteenth  birthday." 

Miss  Wimpole  usually  took  a  little  thin  Mo 
selle  with  the  cold  water  she  drank.  She  sol 
emnly  raised  the  glass,  and  inclined  her  head 
as  she  looked  first  at  Sylvia  and  then  at  the 
colonel. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sylvia,  rather  meekly. 

Then  they  all  relapsed  into  silence.  The  peo 
ple  at  the  big  table  talked  fast,  in  low  tones, 
and  the  clattering  of  dishes  and  plates  and 
knives  and  forks  went  on  steadily  and  untune- 
fully  all  around.  Sylvia  felt  lonely  in  the  un- 
individual  atmosphere  of  the  Swiss  hotel.  She 
hated  the  terribly  handsome  young  man,  with  a 
mortal  hatred,  because  he  made  the  colonel  look 
old.  She  could  not  help  seeing  him  whenever 
she  turned  towards  Wimpole.  At  last  she  spoke 
softly,  looking  down  at  her  plate. 

"  Uncle  Richard,"  she  said,  to  call  his  atten 
tion. 

He  was  not  really  her  uncle,  and  she  almost 
always  called  him  '  colonel,'  half  playfully,  and 
because  she  had  hated  the  suggestion  of  age 
that  is  conveyed  by  the  word  '  uncle.'  Wimpole 
turned  to  her  quietly. 


A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY  159 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  he  said.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  was  very  foolish  to-day,  wasn't 
I  ? "  asked  Sylvia,  very  low  indeed,  and  a  bright 
blush  played  upon  her  pretty  face. 

The  colonel  was  a  courteous  man,  and  was 
also  very  fond  of  her. 

"A  woman  need  never  be  wise  when  she  is 
lovely,"  he  said  in  his  rather  old-fashioned  way, 
and  he  smiled  affectionately  at  the  young  girl. 
"  It  is  quite  enough  if  she  is  good." 

But  she  did  not  smile.  On  the  contrary,  her 
face  became  very  grave. 

"  I  am  in  earnest,"  she  said,  and  she  waited 
a  moment  before  saying  more.  "  I  was  very 
foolish,"  she  continued,  thoughtfully.  "  I  did 
not  understand  —  or  I  did  not  realize  —  I  don't 
know.  You  have  been  so  much  to  me  all  my 
life,  and  there  is  nobody  like  you,  of  course.  It 
seemed  to  me  —  I  mean,  it  seems  to  me  —  that 
is  very  much  like  really  caring  for  some  one, 
isn't  it?  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  can't 
express  it." 

"  You  mean  that  it  is  a  good  deal  like  love,  I 
suppose,"  answered  the  colonel,  speaking  gravely 
now.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  that  love  is  better  when 
people  believe  each  other  to  be  angels.  But  it 
is  not  that  sort  of  thing  which  makes  love  what 
it  is." 

"  What   is   it,  then  ? "     Sylvia  was   glad   to 


160  A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

ask  any  question  that  helped  to  break  through 
the  awkwardness  and  embarrassment  she  felt 
towards  him. 

"  There  are  a  great  many  kinds  of  love,"  he 
said ;  "  but  I  think  there  is  only  one  kind  worth 
having.  It  is  the  kind  that  begins  when  one  is 
young,  and  lasts  all  one's  life." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  Sylvia,  innocently,  and 
in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  All !  "  The  colonel  laughed  softly,  and  a 
momentary  light  of  happiness  came  into  his 
face,  for  that  all  was  all  he  had  ever  had.  "  Is 
not  that  enough,  my  dear  ?  "  he  asked.  "  To 
love  one  woman  or  man  with  all  one's  heart  for 
thirty  or  forty  years  ?  Never  to  be  disappointed  ? 
Never  to  feel  that  one  has  made  a  mistake  ? 
Never  to  fear  that  love  may  grow  old  because 
one  grows  old  oneself  ?  Is  not  that  enough  ? " 

"Ah,  yes!  That  would  be,  indeed.  But  you 
did  not  say  all  those  other  things  at  first." 

"They  are  just  what  make  a  life-long  love," 
answered  the  colonel.  "  But  then,"  he  added, 
"  there  are  a  great  many  degrees,  far  below  that. 
I  am  sure  I  have  seen  people  quite  really  in  love 
with  each  other  for  a  week." 

Sylvia  suddenly  looked  almost  angry  as  she 
glanced  at  him. 

"  That  sort  of  thing  ought  not  to  be  called 
love  at  all!"  she  answered  energetically.  "It 


A   ROSE  OP  YESTERDAY  161 

is  nothing  but  a  miserable  flirtation,  —  a  miser 
able,  wretched,  unworthy  flirtation." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Wimpole,  smil 
ing  at  her  vehemence. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ? "  she  asked,  almost 
offended  by  his  look.  His  smile  disappeared 
instantly. 

"  You  hit  the  world  very  hard,  my  dear,"  he 
answered. 

"  I  hate  the  world  !  "  cried  Sylvia. 

She  was  just  eighteen.  Wimpole  knew  that 
she  felt  an  innocent  and  instinctive  repulsion  for 
what  the  world  meant  to  him,  and  for  all  the 
great,  sinful  unknown.  He  disliked  it  himself, 
with  the  steady,  subdued  dislike  which  is  hatred 
in  such  natures  as  his,  both  because  it  was  con 
trary  to  his  character,  and  for  Sylvia's  sake,  who 
must  surely  one  day  know  something  of  it.  So 
he  did  not  laugh  at  her  sweeping  declaration. 
She  hated  the  world  before  knowing  it,  but  he 
hated  it  in  full  knowledge.  That  was  a  bond 
of  sympathy  like  any  other.  To  each  of  us  the 
world  means  both  what  we  know,  and  what  we 
suspect,  both  what  we  see  and  the  completion  of 
it  in  the  unseen,  both  the  outward  lives  of  our 
companions  which  we  can  judge,  and  their  in 
ward  motives,  which  wre  dimly  guess. 

But  on  this  evening  Sylvia  felt  that  the  world 
was  particularly  odious,  for  she  had  suffered  a 


162  A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

first  humiliation  in  her  own  eyes.  She  thought 
that  she  had  lowered  herself  in  the  colonel's  esti 
mation,  and  she  had  discovered  that  she  had 
made  a  great  mistake  with  herself  about  him. 

"  I  hate  the  world !  "  she  repeated,  in  a  lower 
tone,  almost  to  herself,  and  her  eyes  gleamed 
with  young  anger,  while  her  delicate,  curving 
lips  just  showed  her  small  white  teeth. 

Wimpole  watched  her  face. 

"That  is  no  reason  for  hating  yourself,"  he 
said  gently. 

She  started  and  turned  her  eyes  to  him.  Then 
she  blushed  and  looked  away. 

"  You  must  not  guess  my  thoughts,"  she 
answered.  "  It  is  not  kind." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to.     I  am  sorry." 

"Oh  —  you  could  not  help  it,  of  course.  I 
was  so  foolish  to-day." 

The  blush  deepened,  and  she  said  nothing 
more.  The  colonel  returned  to  his  own  secret 
trouble,  and  on  Sylvia's  other  side  Miss  Wimpole 
was  silently  planning  a  charitable  institution  of 
unusual  severity,  while  she  peeled  an  orange  with 
the  most  scrupulous  neatness  and  precision. 


CHAPTER  X 

SYLVIA  went  to  her  own  room  after  dinner, 
still  wondering  what  had  happened  to  her  on 
her  birthday.  There  is  an  age  at  which  most 
of  us  unexpectedly  come  across  the  truth  about 
ourselves,  and  sometimes  about  others,  and  it 
generally  happens  that  in  our  recollection  the 
change  turns  upon  one  day,  or  even  one  hour. 

The  shock  is  sudden  and  unexpected.  Float 
ing  down  a  quick  smooth  stream  in  a  boat,  a 
man  is  aware  of  motion,  as  he  watches  the  bank 
without  realizing  the  strength  of  the  flowing 
water ;  but  when  the  skiff  is  suddenly  checked 
by  any  obstacle  in  midstream,  the  whole  force 
of  the  river  rushes  upon  it,  and  past  it,  and  per 
haps  over  it,  in  an  instant.  Something  of  the 
same  sort  happens  now  and  then  in  our  lives. 
The  great  illusion  of  childhood  carries  us  along 
at  a  speed  of  which  we  have  no  idea,  in  the 
little  boat  which  is  the  immediate  and  undeni 
able  reality  of  near  surroundings,  the  child's 
cradle  afloat  upon  a  fiction  which  is  wide  and 
deep  and  strong,  and  sometimes  we  are  grown 

163 


164  A  ROSE  OP  YESTERDAY 

men  and  women  before  our  small  craft  strikes 
upon  a  shoal  of  truth,  with  a  dash  that  throws 
us  from  the  thwart,  and  frightens  the  bravest  of 
us.  There  we  stick  fast  upon  the  rough  fact  for 
a,  while,  and  the  flood  that  was  so  smooth  and 
pleasant  rushes  past  us,  foaming  and  seething 
and  breaking  against  the  boat's  side  and  threat 
ening  to  tear  her  to  pieces.  And  if  the  tide  is 
ebbing  at  the  river's  mouth,  we  may  be  left  high 
and  dry  upon  the  sharp  reality  for  a  long  time ; 
but  if  not,  the  high  water  will  presently  float  us, 
and  off  we  shall  spin  again,  smoothly  and  safely, 
on  the  bosom  of  the  sweet  untrue. 

Such  accidents  happen  more  than  once  to 
most  people,  and  almost  every  one  resents  them 
bitterly.  Even  in  daily  living,  few  men  can 
bear  to  be  roughly  roused  from  sleep.  Much 
more  is  the  waking  rude  from  year-long  dreams 
of  fancy. 

Sylvia  sat  at  her  table  and  stared  at  the  lamp, 
as  if  it  were  her  own  heart  which  she  could  look 
into,  and  watch,  and  study,  and  criticise.  For 
most  of  all,  she  was  in  a  humour  to  find  fault 
with  it,  as  having  played  her  false  when  she 
least  expected  that  it  could  deceive  her.  She 
had  built  on  it,  as  it  dictated ;  she  had  trusted 
it,  as  it  suggested ;  she  had  lived,  and  loved  to 
live,  for  its  sake ;  and  now  it  had  betrayed  her. 
It  had  not  been  in  earnest,  all  the  time,  but  had 


A  KOSE  OF  YESTERDAY  165 

somehow  made  her  think  that  she  herself  was 
all  earnestness.  It  was  a  false  and  silly  little 
heart,  and  she  hated  it,  as  she  looked  at  it  in 
the  lamp,  and  she  wished  that  it  would  frizzle 
and  burn  like  the  poor  moth  that  had  gone  too 
near  the  hot  glass  while  she  had  been  down 
stairs. 

It  was  positively  laughing  at  her,  now,  and  she 
set  her  small  mouth  angrily.  To  think  that  she 
should  ever  have  fancied  herself  in  love  with  a 
man  who  might  have  been  her  grandfather ! 
And  it  wickedly  showed  her  the  colonel  as  he 
would  be  in  another  ten  years,  a  picture  founded 
upon  the  tired  look  she  had  just  seen  in  his  face. 
She  was  ashamed  of  herself,  and  furious  against 
herself  for  being  ashamed,  and  she  suddenly 
wished  that  she  were  dead,  because  that  would 
give  people  a  real  reason  for  being  sorry  for  her. 
It  would  be  very  pathetic  to  die  so  young !  If 
she  did,  her  heart  could  not  laugh  at  her. 

She  thought  about  it  for  a  while,  and  among 
other  reflexions  she  suddenly  found  herself  won 
dering  whether  young  Knox,  the  officer  on  her 
father's  ship,  would  be  very  sorry.  He  had 
written  her  a  letter  from  Japan  which  she  had 
not  answered.  Indeed,  she  was  not  sure  that 
she  had  read  every  word  of  it,  for  it  had  only 
come  this  morning.  Life  had  been  too  short 
for  reading  letters  on  that  day.  But  there  it 


166  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

was,  on  the  table.  She  had  the  evening  before 
her,  and  though  it  was  a  long  letter,  it  could 
not  take  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
go  through  it.  She  put  out  her  hand  to  take 
it  and  then  looked  at  the  lamp  again. 

A  lean,  brown  young  face  was  suddenly  there, 
and  bright  eyes  that  looked  straight  at  her,  with 
out  anything  vastly  superior  in  them,  but  full  of 
something  she  liked  and  understood  and  instantly 
longed  for.  Her  heart  was  not  laughing  at  her 
any  more,  for  she  had  forgotten  all  about  it, 
which  is  generally  the  best  thing  one  can  do  in 
such  cases. 

Even  the  expression  of  her  face  changed  and 
softened  as  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  letter. 
For  Wimpole's  sake,  as  she  had  made  herself 
think  a  few  hours  earlier,  she  would  gladly  have 
doubled  her  age,  and  the  forced  longing  for 
equality  of  years  between  herself  and  her  ideal 
had  fleetingly  expressed  itself  in  her  face  by 
shadows,  where  there  could  not  yet  be  lines. 
But  as  the  illusion  sank  down  into  the  store 
house  of  all  impossibilities  and  all  mistakes,  the 
light  of  early  youth  fell  full  and  unscreened 
upon  her  face  again,  and  she  revived  uncon 
sciously,  as  day-flowers  do  at  sunrise,  when  the 
night-flowers  fold  their  leaves. 

It  was  surely  no  thought  of  love  which  made 
the  change ;  or  if  that  were  its  cause,  it  was  but 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  167 

love's  fore-lightening  in  a  waking  dream.  Much 
rather  it  must  have  been  the  consciousness  of  liv 
ing  roused  by  the  thought  of  youth.  For  youth 
is  the  elixir  of  life,  and  the  touch  of  old  age 
is  a  blight  on  youth,  when  youth  is  longing  to 
be  old ;  but  youth  that  is  willingly  young  has 
power  to  give  the  old  a  breath  of  itself  again, 
before  the  very  end.  In  their  children  men  live 
again,  and  in  their  children's  children  they  re 
member  the  loveliness  of  childhood. 

From  a  very  far  country,  across  half  a  world 
of  land  and  water,  the  letter  had  come  to  Sylvia 
on  her  birthday,  as  Harmon's  had  come  to 
Helen.  There  is  something  strange  and  ter 
rible,  if  we  realize  it,  in  man's  power  to  harm 
or  help  by  written  words  from  any  distance. 
The  little  bit  of  paper  leaves  our  hand  with  its 
wishing-carpet  in  the  shape  of  a  postage  stamp, 
and  swiftly  singles  out  the  one  man  or  woman, 
in  two  thousand  millions,  for  whom  it  is  meant, 
going  straight  to  its  mark  with  an  aim  far  more 
unerring  than  steel  or  ball.  A  man  may  much 
more  probably  miss  his  enemy  with  a  pistol  at 
ten  paces,  than  with  a  letter  at  ten  thousand 
miles.  If  the  fabled  inhabitant  of  Mars  could 
examine  our  world  under  an  imaginary  glass,  as 
we  study  a  drop  of  water  under  a  microscope,  he 
would  surely  be  profoundly  interested  in  the 
movements  of  the  letter-bacillus,  as  he  might 


168  A  KOSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

call  it.  He  might  question  whether  it  is  gener 
ated  spontaneously,  or  is  the  result  of  an  act  of 
will,  more  or  less  aggressive,  but  he  would  mar 
vel  at  the  rapidity  of  its  motion  and  at  the 
strength  of  its  action  upon  the  human  animal 
through  the  eye.  It  would  be  very  inexplicable 
to  him;  least  of  all  could  he  understand  the 
instant  impulse  of  man  to  tear  off  the  shell 
of  the  bacillus  as  soon  as  it  reaches  him,  for 
he  would  no  doubt  notice  that  in  a  vast  number 
of  cases  the  sight  of  it  produces  discontent  and 
pain,  and  he  might  even  find  a  few  instances  in 
which  death  followed  almost  immediately.  In 
others  the  bacteria  produce  amazingly  exhila 
rating  results,  such  as  laughter  and  the  undigni 
fied  antics  of  joy,  and  even  sudden  improvements 
in  the  animal's  health  and  appearance.  He 
would  especially  notice  that  these  bacilli  are 
almost  perpetually  in  motion,  from  the  time 
they  leave  one  human  being  until  they  fasten 
themselves  upon  another,  and  that  in  parts  of 
the  world  where  they  are  not  found  at  all,  or 
only  sporadically,  the  animals  behave  in  a  very 
different  way,  are  healthier,  and  are  less  exposed 
to  the  fatal  results  of  their  own  inventions.  If 
the  inhabitant  of  Mars  were  given  to  jumping 
at  conclusions,  he  would  certainly  announce  to 
his  fellow-beings  that  he  had  discovered  in  Earth 
the  germ  of  a  disease  called  by  Terrenes  '  Civ- 


A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  169 

ilization.'  And  perhaps  that  is  just  what  the 
letter  is. 

Young  Knox  wrote  to  Sylvia  because  he  was 
in  love  with  her,  which  is  the  best  of  all  reasons 
for  writing  when  love  is  right,  and  the  worst 
imaginable  when  it  is  wrong.  He  was  so  much 
in  love  that  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  his  sight 
his  first  impulse  was  to  set  down  on  paper  all 
sorts  of  things  which  had  very  little  sense  in 
them,  but  made  up  for  a  famine  of  wisdom  by  a 
corresponding  plenty  of  feeling.  There  is  some 
thing  almost  pathetic  in  the  humbleness  of  a 
young  man's  strength  before  the  object  of  his 
first  true  love.  It  is  the  abasement  of  the  real 
before  the  ideal ;  but  if  the  ideal  fails,  the  real 
takes  vengeance  of  the  man  for  having  trodden 
it  under. 

Young  women  rarely  understand  their  power ; 
older  ones  too  often  overrate  what  they  have. 
The  girl  who  first  breathes  the  air  of  the  outer 
world  and  first  sees  in  a  man's  eyes  that  he 
loves  her,  knows  that  he  is  stronger,  better 
taught,  more  experienced  than  she  is,  and  com 
pares  herself  with  him  by  a  measure  which  he 
rates  as  nothing.  Man  is  much  more  real  to 
woman,  when  both  are  very  young,  than  woman 
is  to  man;  and  being  real  he  represents  to  her  a 
sort  of  material  force.  But  to  him  she  is  an 
imaginary  being,  strong  with  a  mystic  influence 


170  A   ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

from  which  he  cannot  escape  when  he  has  come 
within  the  pentagram  of  the  spell.  It  is  bad 
for  a  man  if  she  comes  to  know  her  strength 
before  he  has  learned  his  weakness.  Then  she 
riots  in  it,  recklessly,  for  a  time,  until  she  has 
hurt  him.  She  says,  '  Do  this,'  and  he  does  it, 
like  the  Centurion's  servant ;  or  '  Say  this,'  and 
he  says  it,  be  the  words  wise  or  foolish,  and  she 
reckons  his  wisdom  to  herself  and  his  folly  to 
him,  frankly,  and  without  the  least  doubt  of 
her  own  perfection,  for  a  while,  rejoicing  sense 
lessly  in  driving  him.  But  by  and  by,  as  in  a 
clock,  the  mainspring  feels  the  gentle  regulation 
of  the  swaying  balance,  and  the  balance  takes 
its  motion  from  the  spring,  till  both  together 
move  in  perfect  time,  while  each  without  the 
other  would  be  but  a  useless  bit  of  machinery. 
Sylvia  did  not  know  all  that,  and  if  she  had, 
she  would  perhaps  not  have  reasoned  about  it 
much.  She  did  not  understand  why  young 
Knox  wrote  that  he  would  live  for  her,  die  for 
her,  and,  if  necessary,  convulse  the  solar  system 
for  her  exclusive  pleasure  and  benefit.  It  seemed 
a  great  deal  to  promise  under  the  circumstances, 
and  her  moderate  maiden  vanity  could  not  make 
her  appear,  in  her  own  eyes,  as  an  adequate 
cause  of  such  serious  disturbance  in  the  order 
of  things ;  yet  it  was  not  displeasing  to  be 
magnified  into  a  possible  source  of  astronomical 


A   KOSE  OF   YESTERDAY  171 

miracles,  though  the  idea  was  slightly  ridicu 
lous  and  she  was  glad  that  she  had  it  entirely 
to  herself  and  beyond  carping  criticism. 

She  was  not  in  the  least  in  love  with  the  man 
who  wrote  to  her,  and  she  had  not  been  in  love 
with  him  when  they  had  parted.  That  very 
morning,  when  she  had  received  the  letter,  she 
had  been  a  little  inclined  to  smile  at  the  writer's 
persistence,  and  had  laid  the  letter  aside,  half 
read,  in  no  great  hurry  to  finish  it.  But  since 
then,  her  life  had  changed.  She  had  gone 
aground  on  the  shoal  of  truth  and  she  was 
already  longing  for  the  waters  of  illusion  to 
rise  and  float  her  away. 

So  she  let  the  breezy  memories  come  back  to 
her,  and  they  brought  her  a  sweet  forewarning 
of  her  growing  life.  All  at  once,  she  knew  that 
she  had  never  met  any  one  so  young  who  had 
pleased  her  so  much,  any  one  with  such  clear 
eyes  and  manly  ways,  frank  smile  and  honest 
voice,  as  the  young  officer  who  had  hated  this 
hollow  world  with  such  grave  conviction  be 
cause  Sylvia  Strahan  could  not  go  home  in  her 
father's  ship.  She  read  on,  and  felt  an  unex 
pected  thrill  of  pleasure  when  the  words  told 
her  what  she  had  already  known ;  namely,  that 
the  squadron  would  be  far  on  its  way  to  San 
Francisco  by  the  time  the  letter  reached  her, 
that  Knox  was  to  come  to  the  capital  with  her 


172  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

father,  and  that  she  was  quite  certain  to  meet 
him  there  before  very  long.  She  was  uncon 
scious  of  looking  round  at  her  things  just  then 
and  wishing  that  they  were  already  packed  for 
the  homeward  journey. 

She  wrote  to  him  before  she  went  to  bed.  It 
was  a  duty  of  civility  to  answer  him,  though 
she  felt  herself  under  no  obligation  to  reply  to 
his  numerous  questions.  On  the  contrary,  she 
said  nothing  at  all  about  them,  but  she  gave 
him  her  impressions  of  Lucerne  and  told  him 
that  Aunt  Rachel  had  taken  cold,  but  was  now 
quite  well,  a  piece  of  information  which,  though 
satisfactory  in  its  way,  was  not  calculated  to 
affect  her  correspondent's  happiness  in  any 
marked  degree.  '  It  would  be  nice  to  see  each 
other  again,'  she  said  at  the  end,  with  which 
mild  sentiment  she  signed  herself  '  sincerely ' 
his. 

The  only  odd  thing  about  it  all  was  that 
when  the  letter  was  finished  she  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  where  to  send  it,  a  fact  which  had 
not  crossed  her  mind  when  she  had  unscrewed 
her  travelling  inkstand,  but  which  sufficiently 
proved  that  she  had  acted  under  an  impulse  of 
some  sort.  She  said  to  herself  that  it  did  not 
matter,  but  she  was  disappointed,  and  the  smile 
faded  from  her  face  for  a  little  while. 

When  she  was  asleep  it  came  back  in  the 


A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  173 

dark  and  lingered  on  her  lips  all  night,  waning 
and  waxing  with  her  maiden  dreams. 

Her  eighteenth  birthday  had  been  a  good 
day  in  her  life,  after  all.  There  are  few  indeed 
who  fall  asleep  happily  when  the  first  illusion 
has  gone  down  into  darkness  with  the  evening 
sun. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HELEN  HARMON  went  out  alone  to  mail  her 
letter.  She  would  not  have  done  such  a  thing 
in  any  great  city  of  Europe,  but  there  is  a  sense 
of  safety  in  the  dull,  impersonal  atmosphere  of 
Lucerne,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to  be  out  in 
the  open  air  alone ;  it  Avould  be  a  still  greater 
relief  to  have  dropped  the  letter  into  the  myste 
rious  slit  which  is  the  first  stage  on  the  road  to 
everywhere. 

No  one  ever  thinks  of  the  straight  little  cut, 
with  its  metal  cover,  as  being  at  all  tragical. 
And  yet  it  is  as  tragic  as  the  jaws  of  death,  in 
its  way.  Many  a  man  and  woman  has  stood 
before  it  with  a  letter  and  hesitated ;  and  every 
one  has,  at  some  time  or  other,  felt  the  sharp 
twist  at  the  heart,  which  is  the  wrench  of  the 
irrevocable,  when  the  envelope  has  just  slipped 
away  into  darkness.  The  words  cannot  be  un 
written  any  more,  after  that,  nor  burned,  nor 
taken  back.  A  telegram  may  contradict  them, 
or  explain  them,  or  ask  pardon  for  them,  but  the 
message  will  inevitably  be  read,  and  do  its  work 

174 


A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  175 

of  peace  or  war,  of  challenge  or  forgiveness,  of 
cruelty,  or  kindness,  or  indifference. 

Helen  did  not  mean  to  hesitate,  for  she  has 
tened  towards  the  moment  of  looking  back  upon 
a  deed  now  hard  to  do.  It  was  not  far  to  the 
post  office,  either,  and  the  thing  could  soon  be 
done.  Yet  in  her  brain  there  was  a  surging  of 
uncertainties  and  a  whirling  of  purposes,  in  the 
midst  of  which  she  clung  hard  to  her  determina 
tion,  though  it  should  cost  ever  so  dear  to  carry 
it  out.  She  had  not  half  thought  of  all  the 
consequences  yet,  nor  of  all  it  must  mean  to  her 
to  be  separated  from  her  son.  The  results  of 
her  action  sprang  up  now,  like  sudden  dangers, 
and  tried  to  frighten  her  from  her  purpose,  tried 
to  gain  time  against  her  to  show  themselves, 
tried  to  terrify  her  back  to  inaction  and  doubt. 
Something  asked  her  roughly  whence  she  had 
got  the  conviction  that  she  was  doing  right  at 
all.  Another  something,  more  subtle,  whispered 
that  she  was  sacrificing  Archie  for  the  sake  of 
her  own  morbid  conscience,  and  making  herself 
a  martyr's  crown,  not  of  her  own  sufferings  only, 
but  of  her  son's  loss  in  losing  her.  It  told  her 
that  the  letter  she  held  in  her  hand  was  a  mis 
take,  but  not  irrevocable  until  it  should  have 
slipped  into  the  dark  entrance  of  the  road  to 
everywhere. 

She  had  still  a  dozen  steps  to  make  before 


176  A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

reaching  the  big  white  building  that  stands 
across  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  she  was 
hurrying  on,  lest  she  should  not  reach  the  door 
in  time.  Then  she  almost  ran  against  Colonel 
Wimpole,  walking  slowly  along  the  pavement 
where  there  was  a  half  shadow.  Both  stopped 
short,  and  looked  at  each  other  in  surprise.  He 
saw  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and  guessed  that  she 
had  written  to  her  husband. 

"I  was  only  going  to  the  post  office,"  she  said, 
half  apologetically,  for  she  thought  that  he  must 
wonder  why  she  had  come  out  alone  at  such  an 
hour. 

"  Will  you  let  me  walk  with  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

He  made  a  step  forwards,  as  though  expect 
ing  her  to  turn  back  from  her  errand  and  go 
with  him. 

"  Not  that  way,"  she  said.  "  I  must  go  to 
the  post  office  first." 

"No.  Please  don't."  He  placed  himself  in 
her  way. 

"  I  must." 

She  spoke  emphatically  and  stood  still,  facing 
him,  while  their  eyes  met  again,  and  neither 
spoke  again  for  a  few  seconds. 

"  You  are  ruining  your  life,"  he  said,  after 
the  pause.  "  When  that  letter  is  gone,  you  will 
never  be  able  to  get  it  back." 


A  ROSE   OP  YESTERDAY  177 

"  I  know.     I  shall  not  wish  to." 

"You  will."  His  lips  set  themselves  rather 
firmly  as  he  opposed  her,  but  her  face  darkened. 

"  Is  this  a  trial  of  strength  between  us  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  Yes.  I  mean  to  keep  you  from  going  back 
to  Henry  Harmon." 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind/'  Helen  answered. 

"  So  have  I,"  said  Wimpole. 

"  How  can  you  hinder  me  ?  You  cannot  pre 
vent  me  from  sending  this  letter,  nor  from  going 
to  him  if  I  choose.  And  I  have  chosen  to  go. 
That  ends  it." 

"  You  are  mistaken.  You  are  reckoning  with 
out  me,  and  I  will  make  it  impossible." 

"  You  ?     How  ?     Even  if  I  send  this  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Come  and  walk  a  little,  and  we  can 
talk.  If  you  insist  upon  it,  drop  your  letter 
into  the  box.  But  it  will  only  complicate  mat 
ters,  for  you  shall  not  go  back  to  Harmon." 

Again  she  looked  at  him.  He  had  never 
spoken  in  this  way,  during  all  the  years  of 
their  acknowledged  friendship  and  unspoken 
love.  She  felt  that  she  resented  his  words  and 
manner,  but  at  the  same  time  that  she  loved 
him  better  and  admired  him  more.  He  was 
stronger  and  more  dominant  than  she  had 
guessed. 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  such  things  to 


178  A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

me,"  she  answered.  "  But  I  will  walk  with 
you  for  a  few  minutes.  Of  course  you  can 
hinder  me  from  sending  my  letter  now.  I 
can  take  it  to  the  post  office  by  and  by." 

"  You  cannot  suppose  that  I  mean  to  prevent 
you  by  force,"  said  Wimpole,  and  he  stood  aside 
to  let  her  pass  if  she  would. 

"  You  said  that  it  was  a  trial  of  strength," 
she  answered. 

She  hesitated  one  moment,  and  then  turned 
and  began  to  walk  with  him.  They  crossed  the 
street  to  the  side  by  which  the  river  runs,  away 
from  the  hotels  and  the  houses.  It  was  darker 
there  and  more  quiet,  and  they  felt  more  alone. 
It  would  seem  easier,  too,  to  talk  in  the  open 
air,  with  the  sound  of  the  rushing  water  in  their 
ears.  He  was  the  first  to  speak  then. 

"I  want  to  explain,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Yes."     She  waited  for  him  to  go  on. 

"  I  suppose  that  there  are  times  in  life  when 
it  is  better  to  throw  over  one's  own  scruples,  if 
one  has  any,"  he  began.  "  I  have  never  done 
anything  to  be  very  proud  of,  perhaps,  but  I 
never  did  anything  to  be  ashamed  of  either. 
Perhaps  I  shall  be  ashamed  of  what  I  am  going 
to  say  now.  I  don't  care.  I  would  rather  com 
mit  a  crime  than  let  you  wreck  your  whole  ex 
istence,  but  I  hope  you  will  not  make  me  do 
that." 


A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  179 

They  had  stopped  in  their  walk,  and  were  lean 
ing  against  the  railing  that  runs  along  the  bank. 

"  You  are  talking  rather  desperately,"  said 
Helen,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  It  is  rather  a  desperate  case,"  Wimpole 
answered.  "  I  talk  as  well  as  I  can,  and  there 
are  things  which  I  must  tell  you,  whatever  you 
think  of  me ;  things  I  never  meant  to  say,  but 
which  have  made  up  most  of  my  life.  I  never 
meant  to  tell  you." 

"What?"  " 

"  That  I  love  you.     That  is  the  chief  thing." 

The  words  did  not  sound  at  all  like  a  lover's 
speech,  as  he  spoke  them.  He  had  drawn  him 
self  up  and  stood  quite  straight,  holding  the  rail 
with  his  hands.  He  spoke  coolly,  with  a  sort  of 
military  precision,  as  though  he  were  facing  an 
enemy's  fire.  There  was  not  exactly  an  effort 
in  his  voice,  but  the  tone  showed  that  he  was 
doing  a  hard  thing  at  that  moment.  Then  he 
was  silent,  and  Helen  said  nothing  for  a  long 
time.  She  was  leaning  over  the  rail,  trying  to 
see  the  running  water  in  the  dark. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  at  last,  very  simply, 
and  there  was  another  pause. 

"  I  did  not  expect  you  to  say  that,"  he  an 
swered  presently. 

"  Why  not  ?  We  are  not  children,  you  and  I. 
Besides  —  I  knew  it." 


180  A   ROSE  OP   YESTERDAY 

"  Not  from  me !  "  Wimpole  turned  almost 
sharply  upon  her. 

"  No.  Not  from  you.  You  wrote  Henry  a 
letter,  many  years  ago.  Do  you  remember  ?  I 
had  to  read  everything  when  he  went  to  the 
asylum,  so  I  read  that,  too.  He  had  kept  it  all 
those  years." 

"  I  am  sorry.  I  never  meant  you  to  know. 
But  it  does  not  matter  now,  since  I  have  told 
you  myself." 

He  spoke  coldly  again,  almost  indifferently, 
looking  straight  before  him  into  the  night. 

"  It  matters  a  great  deal,"  said  Helen,  almost 
to  herself,  and  he  did  not  hea,r  her. 

She  kept  her  head  bent  down,  though  he 
could  not  have  seen  her  face  clearly  if  she  had 
looked  up  at  him.  Her  letter  burned  her,  and 
she  hated  herself,  and  loved  him.  She  despised 
herself,  because  in  the  midst  of  the  greatest  sac 
rifice  of  her  life,  she  had  felt  the  breath  of  far 
delight  in  words  that  cost  him  so  much.  Yet 
she  would  have  suffered  much,  even  in  her  good 
pride,  rather  than  have  had  them  unspoken,  for 
she  had  unknowingly  waited  for  them  half  a 
lifetime.  Being  a  good  woman,  she  was  too 
much  a  woman  to  speak  one  word  in  return, 
beyond  the  simple  thanks  that  sounded  so 
strangely  to  him,  for  women  exaggerate  both 
good  and  evil  as  no  man  can. 


A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY  181 

"  I  know,  I  know !  "  lie  said,  suddenly  con 
tinuing.  "  You  are  married,  and  I  should  not 
speak.  I  believe  in  those  things  as  much  as 
you  do,  though  I  am  a  man,  and  most  men 
would  laugh  at  me  for  being  so  scrupulous. 
You  ought  never  to  have  known,  and  I  meant 
that  you  never  should.  But  then,  you  are  mar 
ried  to  Harmon  still,  because  you  choose  to  be, 
and  because  you  will  not  be  free.  Does  not 
that  make  a  difference  ?  " 

"No,  not  that.  That  makes  no  difference." 
She  raised  her  head  a  little. 

"  But  it  does  now,"  answered  Wimpole.  "  It 
is  because  I  do  love  you,  just  as  I  do,  with  all 
my  heart,  that  I  mean  to  keep  you  from  him, 
whether  it  is  right  or  wrong.  Don't  you  see 
that  right  and  wrong  only  matter  to  one's  own 
miserable  self?  I  shall  not  care  what  becomes 
of  my  soul  if  I  can  keep  you  from  all  that 
unhappiness  —  from  that  real  danger.  It  does 
not  matter  what  becomes  of  me  afterwards  — 
even  if  I  were  to  go  straight  to  New  York  and 
kill  Harmon  and  be  hanged  for  the  murder,  it 
would  not  matter,  so  long  as  you  were  free  and 
safe." 

The  man  had  fought  in  honourable  battles, 
and  had  killed,  and  knew  what  it  meant. 

"Is  that  what  you  intend  to  do?"  asked 
Helen,  and  her  voice  shook. 


182  A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

"  It  would  mean  a  great  deal,  if  I  had  to  do 
it,"  he  answered  quietly  enough.  "  It  would 
show  that  I  loved  you  very  much.  For  I  have 
been  an  honourable  man  all  my  life,  and  have 
never  done  anything  to  be  ashamed  of.  I  should 
be  killing  a  good  deal,  besides  Henry  Harmon, 
but  I  would  give  it  to  make  you  happy,  Helen. 
I  am  in  earnest." 

"  You  could  not  make  me  happy  in  that 
way." 

"  No.  I  suppose  not.  I  shall  find  some  other 
way.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  see  Harmon  and 
talk  to  him  —  " 

"How?  When?"  Helen  turned  up  her  face 
in  surprise. 

"  If  you  send  what  you  have  written,  I  shall 
leave  to-night,"  said  the  colonel.  "  I  shall  reach 
New  York  as  soon  as  your  letter  and  see  Harmon 
before  he  reads  it,  and  tell  him  what  I  think." 

"  You  will  not  do  that  ? "  She  did  not  know 
whether  she  was  frightened,  or  not,  by  the 
idea. 

"  I  will,"  he  answered.  "  I  will  not  stay  here 
tamely  and  let  you  wreck  your  life.  If  you 
mail  your  letter,  I  shall  take  the  midnight  train 
to  Paris.  I  told  you  that  I  was  in  earnest." 

Helen  was  silent,  for  she  saw  a  new  difficulty 
and  more  trouble  before  her,  as  though  the  last 
few  hours  had  not  brought  her  enough. 


A   ROSE  OP   YESTERDAY  183 

"I  think,"  said  Wimpole,  "that  I  could  per 
suade  Harmon  not  to  accept  your  generosity." 

"  I  am  not  doing  anything  generous.  You 
are  making  it  hard  for  me  to  do  what  is  right. 
You  are  almost  threatening  to  do  something 
violent,  to  hinder  me." 

"  No.  I  know  perfectly  well  that  I  should 
never  do  anything  of  that  sort,  and  I  think  you 
know  it,  too.  To  treat  Harmon  as  he  deserves 
would  certainly  make  a  scandal  which  must 
reflect  upon  you." 

"  Please  remember  that  he  is  still  my  hus 
band—  " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Wimpole,  bitterly,  "and 
that  is  his  only  title  to  consideration." 

Helen  was  on  the  point  of  rebuking  him,  but 
reflected  that  what  he  said  was  probably  true. 

"  Please  respect  it,  then,  if  you  think  so,"  she 
said  quietly.  "  You  say  that  you  care  for  me 
— no,  I  won't  put  it  so  —  you  do  care  for  me. 
You  love  ine,  and  I  know  you  do.  Let  us  be 
perfectly  honest  with  each  other.  As  long  as 
you  help  me  do  right,  it  is  not  wrong  to  love 
me  as  you  do,  though  I  am  another  man's  wife. 
But  as  soon  as  you  stand  between  me  and  my 
husband,  it  is  wrong  —  wicked!  It  is  wicked, 
no  matter  what  he  may  have  been  to  me.  That 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  is  coming  between 
man  and  wife  —  " 


184  A  ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

"  Oh  —  really — that  is  going  too  far!"  Wim- 
pole  raised  his  head  a  little  higher,  and  seemed 
to  breathe  the  night  air  angrily  through  his 
nostrils. 

"  No,"  answered  Helen,  persistently,  for  she 
was  arguing  against  her  heart,  if  not  against 
her  head,  "  it  is  not  going  at  all  too  far.  Such 
things  should  be  taken  for  granted,  or  at  least 
they  should  be  left  to  the  man  and  wife  in 
question  to  decide.  No  one  has  any  right  to 
interfere,  and  no  one  shall.  If  I  can  forgive, 
you  can  have  nothing  to  resent ;  for  the  mere 
fact  of  your  liking  me  very  much  does  not  give 
you  any  sort  of  right  to  direct  my  life,  does  it  ? 
I  am  glad  that  you  are  so  fond  of  me,  for  I 
trust  you  and  respect  you  in  every  way,  and 
even  now  I  know  that  you  are  interfering  only 
because  you  care  for  me.  But  you  have  not  the 
right  to  interfere,  not  the  slightest,  and  although 
you  may  be  able  to,  yet  if  I  beg  you  not  to,  it  will 
not  be  honourable  of  you  to  come  between  us." 

Colonel  Wimpole  moved  a  little  impatiently. 

"  I  will  take  my  honour  into  my  own  hands," 
he  said. 

"But  not  mine,"  answered  Helen. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  the  gloom,  as 
they  leaned  upon  the  railing. 

"  Yours  shall  be  quite  safe,"  said  the  colonel 
slowly.  "  But  if  you  will  drop  that  letter  into 


A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  185 

the  river,  you  will  make  things  easier  in  every 
way." 

"  I  should  write  it  over  again.  Besides,  I 
have  telegraphed  to  him  already." 

"What?     Cabled?" 

"  Yes.  You  see  that  you  can  do  nothing  to 
hinder  me.  He  has  rny  message  already.  The 
matter  is  decided." 

She  bent  her  head  again,  looking  down  into 
the  rushing  water  as  though  tired  of  arguing. 

"  You  are  a  saint,"  said  the  colonel.  "  I  could 
not  have  done  that." 

"Perhaps  I  could  not,  if  I  had  waited,"  an 
swered  Helen,  in  a  voice  so  low  that  he  could 
hardly  hear  the  words.  "  But  it  is  done  now," 
she  added,  still  lower,  so  that  he  could  not  hear 
at  all. 

Wimpole  had  been  a  man  of  quick  decisions 
so  long  as  he  had  been  a  soldier,  but  since  then 
he  had  cultivated  the  luxury  of  thinking  slowly. 
He  began  to  go  over  the  situation,  trying  to  see 
what  he  could  do,  not  losing  courage  yet,  but 
understanding  how  very  hard  it  would  be  to 
keep  Helen  from  sacrificing  herself. 

And  she  peered  down  at  the  black  river,  that 
rushed  past  with  a  cruel  sound,  as  though  it 
were  tearing  away  the  time  of  freedom,  second 
by  second.  It  was  done,  now,  as  she  had  said. 
She  knew  herself  too  well  to  believe  that  even 


186  A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

if  she  should  toss  the  letter  into  the  stream,  she 
would  not  write  another  in  just  such  words. 
But  the  regret  was  deep,  and  thrilled  with  a 
secret,  aching  pulse  of  its  own,  all  through  her, 
and  she  thought  of  what  life  might  have  been, 
if  she  had  not  made  the  great  mistake,  and  of 
what  it  still  might  be  if  she  did  not  go  back  to 
her  husband.  The  man  who  stood  beside  her 
loved  her,  and  was  ready  to  give  everything, 
perhaps  even  to  his  honour,  to  save  her  from 
unhappiness.  And  she  loved  him,  too,  next  to 
honour.  In  the  tranquil  life  she  was  leading, 
there  could  be  a  great  friendship  between  them, 
such  as  few  people  can  even  dream  of.  She  knew 
him,  and  she  knew  herself,  and  she  believed  it 
possible,  for  once  in  the  history  of  man  and 
woman.  In  a  measure,  it  might  subsist,  even 
after  she  had  gone  back  to  Harmon,  but  not  in 
the  same  degree,  for  between  the  two  men  there 
would  be  herself.  Wimpole  would  perhaps  refuse 
altogether  to  enter  Harmon's  door  or  to  touch 
Harmon's  hand.  And  then,  in  her  over-scrupu 
lousness,  during  the  time  she  was  to  spend  with 
Archie,  she  knew  that  she  should  hesitate  to 
receive  freely  a  man  who  would  not  be  on 
speaking  terms  with  the  husband  whom  she 
had  taken  back,  no  matter  how  she  felt  towards 
Wimpole. 

Besides,  he  had  told  her  that  he  loved  her, 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  187 

and  that  made  a  difference,  too.  So  long  as  the 
word  had  never  been  spoken,  there  had  been  the 
reasonable  doubt  to  shield  her  conscience.  His 
old  love  might,  after  all,  have  turned  to  friend 
ship,  which  is  like  the  soft,  warm  ashes  of  wood 
when  the  fire  is  quite  burned  out.  But  he  had 
spoken  at  last,  and  there  was  no  more  doubt, 
and  his  quiet  words  had  stirred  her  own  heart. 
He  had  begun  by  telling  her  that  he  had  many 
things  to  say ;  but,  after  all,  the  one  and  only 
thing  he  had  said  which  he  had  never  said  be 
fore  was  that  he  loved  her. 

It  was  enough,  and  too  much,  and  it  made 
everything  harder  for  her.  We  speak  of  strug 
gles  with  ourselves.  It  would  really  be  far 
more  true  to  talk  of  battles  between  our  two 
selves,  or  even  sometimes  between  our  threefold 
natures,  —  our  good,  our  bad,  and  our  indifferent 
personalities. 

To  Helen,  the  woman  who  loved  Richard 
Wimpole  was  not  the  woman  who  meant  to 
go  back  to  Henry  Harmon ;  and  neither,  per 
haps,  was  quite  the  same  individual  as  the 
mother  of  poor  Archie.  The  three  were  at 
strife  with  one  another,  though  they  were  one 
being  in  suffering.  For  it  is  true  that  we  may 
be  happy  in  part,  and  in  part  be  indifferent; 
but  no  real  pain  of  the  soul  leaves  room  for  any 
happiness  at  all,  or  indifference,  while  it  lasts. 


188  A   ROSE   OP   YESTERDAY 

So  soon  as  we  can  be  happy  again,  even  for  a 
moment,  the  reality  of  the  pain  is  over,  though 
the  memory  of  it  may  come  back  now  and  then 
in  cruel  little  day-dreams,  after  years.  Happi 
ness  is  composite ;  pain  is  simple.  It  may  take 
a  hundred  things  to  make  a  man  happy,  but  it 
never  needs  more  than  one  to  make  him  suffer. 
Happiness  is,  in  part,  elementary  of  the  body ; 
but  pain  is  only  of  the  soul,  and  its  strength 
is  in  its  singleness.  Bodily  suffering  is  the  op 
posite  of  bodily  pleasure ;  but  true  pain  has  no 
true  opposite,  nor  reversed  counterpart,  of  one 
unmixed  composition,  and  the  dignity  of  a  great 
agony  is  higher  than  all  the  glories  of  joy. 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  do  anything 
to  hinder  me,"  said  Helen  at  last. 

"  I  cannot."  There  was  no  hesitation  in  the 
answer. 

"  But  if  I  ask  you,"  she  said  ;  "  if  I  beg  you, 
if  I  entreat  you  —  " 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  Helen.  I  should  do  my  best 
to  keep  you  away  from  Harmon,  even  if  I  were 
sure  that  you  would  never  speak  to  me  nor  see 
me  again.  I  have  said  almost  all  I  can,  and  so 
have  you.  You  are  half  a  saint,  or  altogether 
one,  or  you  could  not  do  what  you  are  doing. 
But  I  am  not.  I  am  only  a  man.  I  don't  like 
to  talk  about  myself  much,  but  I  would  not  have 
you  think  that  I  care  a  straw  for  my  own  hap- 


A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  189 

piness  compared  with  yours.  I  would  rather 
know  that  you  were  never  to  see  Harmon  again 
than  —  "  He  stopped  short. 

"  Than  what  ?  "  asked  Helen,  after  a  pause. 

He  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  stood  upright 
again  beside  her,  grasping  the  rail. 

"  No  matter,  if  you  do  not  understand,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  Can  I  give  you  any  proof  that  it 
is  not  for  myself,  because  I  love  you,  that  I  want 
to  keep  you  from  Harmon  ?  Shall  I  promise  you 
that  when  I  have  succeeded  I  will  not  see  you 
again  as  long  as  I  live  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  No  !  "  The  cry  was  sudden,  low, 
and  heartfelt. 

Wimpole  squeezed  the  cold  railing  a  little 
harder  in  his  hands,  but  did  not  move. 

"  Is  there  any  proof  at  all  that  I  could  give 
you  ?  Try  and  think." 

"  Why  should  I  need  proof  ?  "  asked  Helen. 
"  I  believe  you,  as  I  always  have." 

"  Well,  then  —  "  he  began,  but  she  interrupted 
him. 

"  That  does  not  change  matters,"  she  contin 
ued.  "  You  are  right  merely  because  you  are 
perfectly  disinterested  for  yourself,  and  alto 
gether  interested  for  me  alone.  I  am  not  the 
only  person  to  be  considered." 

"  I  think  you  are.  And  if  any  one  else  has 
any  right  to  consideration,  it  is  Archie." 


190  A   ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

"  I  know,"  Helen  answered,  "  and  you  hurt 
me  again  when  you  say  it.  But  besides  all  of 
us,  there  is  Henry." 

"And  what  right  has  he?"  asked  Wimpole, 
almost  fiercely.  "  What  right  has  he  to  any 
sort  of  consideration  from  you,  or  from  any 
one  ?  If  you  had  a  brother,  he  would  have 
wrung  Harmon's  neck  long  ago !  I  wish  I  had 
the  right !  " 

"  I  never  heard  you  say  anything  brutal  be 
fore,"  said  Helen. 

"  I  never  had  such  good  cause,"  retorted  Wim 
pole,  a  little  more  quietly.  "  Put  yourself  in  my 
position.  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life,  —  God 
knows  I  have  loved  you  honestly,  too,  —  and 
held  my  tongue.  And  Harmon  has  spent  his 
life  in  ruining  yours  in  every  way,  —  in  ways  I 
know  and  in  ways  I  don't  know,  but  can  more 
than  half  guess.  He  neglected  you,  he  was  un 
faithful  to  you,  he  insulted  you,  and  at  last  he 
struck  you.  I  have  found  that  out  to-day,  and 
that  blow  must  have  nearly  killed  you.  I  know 
about  those  things.  Do  you  expect  me  to  have 
any  consideration  for  the  brute  who  has  half 
killed  the  woman  I  love  ?  Do  you  expect  me 
to  keep  my  hands  off  the  man  whose  hands  have 
struck  you  and  wounded  you  ?  By  the  Lord, 
Helen,  you  are  expecting  too  much  of  human 
nature  !  Or  too  little  —  I  don't  know  which  !  " 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  191 

He  had  controlled  his  temper  long,  keeping 
down  the  white  heat  of  it  in  his  heart,  but  he 
could  not  be  calm  forever.  The  fighting  instinct 
was  not  lost  yet,  and  must  have  its  way. 

"He  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing,"  said 
Helen,  shrinking  a  little. 

"You  have  a  right  to  say  that,"  answered  the 
colonel,  "  if  you  can  be  forgiving  enough.  But 
only  a  coward  could  say  it  for  you,  and  only  a 
coward  would  stand  by  and  see  you  go  back  to 
your  husband.  I  am  not  a  coward,  and  I  won't. 
Since  you  have  cabled  to  him,  I  shall  leave 
to  night,  whether  you  send  that  letter  or  not. 
Can't  you  understand  ?  " 

"  But  what  can  you  do  ?  What  can  you  say 
to  him  ?  How  can  you  influence  him  ?  Even  if 
I  admit  that  I  have  no  power  to  keep  you  from 
going  to  him,  what  can  you  do  when  you  see 
him?" 

"I  can  think  of  that  on  the  way,"  said  Wim- 
pole.  "  There  will  be  more  than  enough  time. 
I  don't  know  what  I  shall  say  or  do  yet.  It 
does  not  matter,  for  I  have  made  up  my 
mind." 

"Will  nothing  induce  you  to  stay  here?" 
asked  Helen,  desperately. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Wimpole,  and  his  lips 
shut  upon  the  word. 

"  Then  I  will  go,  too,"  answered  Helen. 


192  A   ROSE   OF  YESTERDAY 

"  You  !  "  Wimpole  had  not  thought  of  such 
a  possibility,  and  he  started. 

"  Yes.  My  mind  is  made  up,  too.  If  you 
go,  I  go.  I  shall  get  there  as  soon  as  you,  and 
I  will  prevent  you  from  seeing  him  at  all.  If 
you  force  me  to  it,  I  will  defend  him  from  you. 
I  will  tell  the  doctors  that  you  will  drive  him 
mad  again,  and  they  will  help  me  to  protect 
him.  You  cannot  get  there  before  me,  you 
know,  for  we  shall  cross  in  the  same  steamer, 
and  land  at  the  same  moment." 

"  What  a  woman  you  are  !  "  Wimpole  bent 
his  head,  as  he  spoke  the  words,  leaning  against 
the  railing.  "  But  I  might  have  known  it," 
he  added ;  "  I  might  have  known  you  would  do 
that.  It  is  like  you." 

Helen  felt  a  bitter  sort  of  triumph  over  her 
self,  in  having  destroyed  the  last  chance  of  his 
interference. 

"  In  any  case,"  she  said,  "  I  should  go  at 
once.  It  could  be  a  matter  of  only  a  few  days 
at  the  utmost.  Why  should  I  wait,  since  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  ? " 

"Why  indeed?"  The  colonel's  voice  was 
sad.  "  I  suppose  the  martyrs  were  glad  when 
the  waiting  was  over,  and  their  turn  came  to  be 
torn  to  pieces." 

He  felt  that  he  was  annihilated,  and  he  suf 
fered  keenly  in  his  defeat,  for  he  had  been  deter- 


A  ROSE  OF   YESTEIiDAY  193 

mined  to  save  her  at  all  risks.  She  was  making 
even  risk  impossible.  If  she  went  straight  to  her 
husband  and  took  him  back,  and  protected  him, 
as  she  called  it,  what  could  any  one  do  ?  It 
was  a  hopeless  case.  Wimpole's  anger  against 
Harmon  slowly  subsided,  and  above  it  rose  his 
pity  for  the  woman  who  was  giving  all  the  life 
she  still  had  left  for  the  sake  of  her  marriage  vow, 
who  was  ready,  and  almost  eager,  to  go  back  to 
a  state  full  of  horror  in  the  past,  and  of  danger 
in  the  future,  because  she  had  once  solemnly 
promised  to  be  Henry  Harmon's  wife,  and  could 
not  find  in  all  the  cruel  years  a  reason  for  tak 
ing  back  her  word.  He  bowed  his  head,  and  he 
knew  that  there  was  something  higher  in  her 
than  he  had  ever  dreamt  in  his  own  honourable 
life,  for  it  was  something  that  clung  to  its  belief, 
against  all  suggestion  or  claim  of  justice  for 
itself. 

It  was  not  only  pity.  A  despair  for  her 
crept  nearer  and  grew  upon  him  every  moment. 
Though  he  had  seen  her  rarely,  he  had  felt 
nearer  to  her  since  Harmon  had  been  mad,  and 
now  he  was  to  be  further  from  her  than  ever 
before.  He  would  probably  not  go  so  far  as  she 
feared,  and  would  be  willing  to  enter  her  hus 
band's  house  for  her  sake,  and  in  the  hope  of 
being  useful  to  her.  But  he  could  never  be  so 
near  to  her  again  as  he  was  now,  and  his  last 


194  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

chance  of  protecting  her  had  vanished  before 
her  unchangeable  resolution.  He  would  almost 
rather  have  known  that  she  was  going  to  her 
death,  than  see  her  return  to  Harmon.  He 
made  one  more  attempt  to  influence  her.  He 
did  it  roughly,  but  his  voice  shook  a  little. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  if  I  were  a 
woman,  I  should  be  too  proud  to  go  back  to 
a  man  who  had  struck  me." 

Helen  moved  and  stood  upright,  trying  to 
look  into  his  face  clearly  in  the  dimness  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Then  you  think  I  am  not  proud? " 

He  could  see  her  white  features  and  dark  eyes, 
and  he  guessed  her  expression. 

"  You  are  not  proud  for  yourself,"  he  answered 
rather  stubbornly.  "  If  you  were,  you  could  not 
do  this." 

She  turned  from  him  again,  and  looked  down 
at  the  black  water. 

"  I  am  prouder  than  you  think,"  she  said. 
"That  does  not  make  it  easier." 

"  In  one  way,  yes.  When  you  have  deter 
mined  to  do  a  thing,  you  are  ashamed  to  change 
your  mind,  no  matter  what  your  decision  may 
cost  yourself  and  others." 

"  Yes,  when  I  am  right.  At  least,  I  hope  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  break  down  now." 

"  I  wish  you  would  !  " 


A   HOSE   OP    YESTERDAY  195 

It  was  a  helpless  exclamation,  and  Wimpole 
knew  it,  for  he  was  at  the  end  of  all  argument 
and  hope,  and  his  despair  for  her  rose  in  his 
eyes  in  the  dark.  He  could  neither  do  nor  say 
anything  more,  and  presently  when  he  had  left 
her  at  the  door  of  her  hotel,  she  would  do  what 
she  meant  to  do,  to  the  letter.  For  the  second 
time  on  that  day  he  wished  that  he  had  acted, 
instead  of  speaking,  and  that  he  had  set  out 
on  his  journey  without  warning  her.  But  in 
the  first  place  he  had  believed  that  she  would 
take  more  time  to  consider  her  action ;  and 
again,  he  had  a  vague  sense  that  it  would  not 
have  been  loyal  and  fair  to  oppose  her  intention 
without  warning  her.  And  now  she  had  utterly 
defeated  him,  and  upheld  her  will  against  him, 
in  spite  of  all  he  could  do.  He  loved  her  the 
better  for  her  strength,  but  he  despaired  the 
more.  He  felt  that  he  was  going  to  say  good 
bye  to  her,  as  though  she  were  about  to  die. 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  take  hers,  and  she 
met  it  readily.  In  her  haste  to  come  out  with 
her  letter  she  had  not  even  taken  the  time  to 
put  on  gloves,  and  her  warm,  firm  fingers  closed 
upon  his  thin  hand  as  though  they  were  the 


stronger. 


"  I  must  go,"  she  said.     "  It  is  very  late." 

"Is  it?" 

"  Yes.     I  want  to  thank  yon,  for  wishing  to 


196  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

help  me  —  and  for  everything.  I  know  that 
you  would  do  anything  for  me,  and  I  like  to 
feel  that  you  would.  But  there  is  nothing  to 
be  done.  Henry  will  answer  my  cable,  and 
then  I  shall  go  to  him." 

"  It  is  as  though  you  were  dying,  and  I  were 
saying  good-bye  to  you,  Helen." 

"That  would  be  easier,"  she  answered,  "for 
you  and  me." 

She  pressed  his  hand  with  a  frank,  unaffected 
pressure,  and  then  withdrew  her  own.  He 
sighed  as  he  turned  from  the  dark  water  to 
cross  the  quiet  street  with  her.  The  people 
who  had  been  walking  about  had  gone  home 
suddenly,  as  they  do  in  provincial  places,  and 
the  electric  light  glared  and  blinked  upon  the 
deserted,  macadamized  road.  There  was  some 
thing  unwontedly  desolate,  even  the  air,  for  the 
sky  was  cloudy,  and  a  damp  wind  came  up  from 
the  lake. 

Without  a  word  the  two  walked  to  the  post 
office,  and  as  Wimpole  saw  the  irrevocable  mes 
sage  dropped  into  the  slit,  his  heart  almost 
stopped  beating.  A  faint  smile  that  was  cruelly 
sad  to  see  crossed  Helen's  white  face  ;  a  reflexion 
of  the  bitter  victory  she  had  won  over  herself 
against  such  great  odds. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  two  walked  slowly  and  silently  along 
the  pavement  to  the  hotel,  the  damp  wind  fol 
lowing  them  in  fitful  gusts  and  chilling  them 
as  they  went.  They  had  no  words,  for  they 
had  said  all  to  each  other;  each  knew  that 
the  other  was  suffering,  and  both  knew  that 
their  lives  had  led  them  into  a  path  of  sadness 
from  which  they  could  not  turn  back.  They 
walked  wearily  and  unwillingly,  side  by  side, 
and  the  way  seemed  long,  and  yet  too  short, 
as  it  shortened  before  them. 

At  the  lighted  porch  of  the  hotel  they  paused, 
reluctant  to  part. 

"  May  I  see  you  to-morrow  ?  "  asked  Wimpole, 
in  a  dull  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  must  see  you  before  I  go,"  Helen 
answered. 

In  the  light  of  the  lamps  he  saw  how  pale 
she  was,  and  how  very  tired,  and  she  looked 
at  him  and  knew  from  his  face  how  he  was 
suffering  for  her.  They  joined  hands  and  forgot 
to  part  them  when  their  eyes  had  met.  But  they 

197 


198  A    ROSE    OP    YESTERDAY 

had  nothing  to  say,  and  they  had  only  to  bid 
each  other  a  good  night  which  meant  good-bye 
to  both,  though  they  should  meet  ever  so  often 
again. 

The  porter  of  the  hotel  stood  in  the  doorway 
a  few  steps  above  them  and  watched  them  with 
a  sort  of  stolid  interest.  The  lamplight  gleamed 
upon  his  gilt  buttons,  and  the  reflexion  of  them 
made  Helen  aware  of  his  presence.  Then  he 
went  into  the  entrance,  and  there  was  nobody 
else  about.  Voices  came  with  broken  laughter 
from  the  small  garden  adjacent  to  the  hotel, 
where  there  was  a  cafe*,  and  far  away,  at  the 
end  of  the  entrance  hall,  the  clerk  pored  over 
his  books. 

Still  Wimpole  held  Helen's  hand. 

"  It  is  very  hard,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  harder  than  you  know,"  she  answered. 

For  she  loved  him,  though  he  did  not  know 
it,  and  she  felt  as  well  as  he  did  that  she  was 
losing  him.  But  because  she  was  Harmon's 
wife  and  meant  to  stand  by  her  husband,  she 
would  not  call  it  love  in  her  heart,  though  she 
knew  her  own  secret.  She  would  hardly  let 
herself  think  that  it  was  much  harder  for  her 
than  for  Wimpole,  though  she  knew  it.  Temp 
tation  is  not  sin.  She  had  killed  her  temptations 
that  day,  and  in  their  death  had  almost  killed 
herself. 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  199 

The  sacrifice  was  perfect  and  whole-hearted, 
brave  as  true  faith,  and  final  as  death  itself. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Wimpole,  and  his  voice 
broke. 

Helen  still  had  strength  to  speak. 

"  Neither  you  nor  I  shall  ever  regret  this," 
she  answered,  but  she  looked  long  at  him,  as 
though  she  were  not  to  see  him  again. 

He  pressed  her  hand  hard  and  dropped  it. 
Once  more  she  looked  at  him  and  then  turned 
slowly  and  left  him  standing  there. 

The  porter  of  the  hotel  was  facing  her  on 
the  steps.  Neither  she  nor  Wimpole  had  no 
ticed  that  he  had  come  back  and  was  waiting 
for  them  to  part.  He  held  a  telegram  in  his 
hand,  and  Helen  started  slightly  as  she  saw  it, 
for  she  knew  that  it  must  be  Harmon's  answer 
to  her  word  of  forgiveness. 

"Already!"  she  exclaimed  faintly,  as  she 
took  it. 

She  turned  back  to  Wimpole,  and  met  his 
eyes  again,  for  he  had  not  moved. 

"  It  is  Henry's  answer,"  she  said. 

She  opened  the  envelope,  standing  with  her 
back  to  the  light  and  to  the  porter.  Wimpole 
breathed  hard,  and  watched  her  face,  and  knew 
that  nothing  was  to  be  spared  to  either  of  them 
on  that  day.  As  she  read  the  words,  he  thought 
she  swayed  a  little  on  her  feet,  and  her  eyes 


200  A   ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

opened  very  wide,  and  her  lips  were  white. 
Wimpole  watched  them  and  saw  how  strangely 
they  moved,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  speak  and 
could  not.  He  set  his  teeth,  for  he  believed 
that  even  the  short  message  had  in  it  some 
fresh  insult  or  injury  for  her. 

She  reeled  visibly,  and  steadied  herself  against 
one  of  the  pillars  of  the  porch,  but  she  was  able 
to  hold  out  the  thin  scrap  of  paper  to  Wimpole 
as  he  moved  forwards  to  catch  her.  He  read 
it.  It  was  a  cable  notice  through  the  telegraph 
office  from  Brest. 

"  Your  message  number  731  Henry  Harmon 
New  York  not  delivered  owing  to  death  of  the 
person  addressed." 

Wimpole  read  the  words  twice  before  their 
meaning  stunned  him.  When  he  knew  where 
he  was,  his  eyes  were  still  on  the  paper,  and 
he  was  grasping  Helen's  wrist,  while  she  stood 
stark  and  straight  against  the  pillar  of  the 
porch.  She  lifted  her  free  hand  and  passed  it 
slowly  across  her  forehead,  opening  and  shutting 
her  eyes  as  if  waking.  The  porter  stared  at 
her  from  the  steps. 

"  Come,"  said  Wimpole.  "  Let  us  go  out 
again.  We  can't  stay  here." 

Helen  looked  at  him,  only  half  comprehend 
ing.  Even  in  the  uncertain  light  he  could  see 
the  colour  returning  to  her  face,  and  he  felt  it 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  201 

in  his  own.  Then  her  senses  came  back  all  at 
once  with  her  own  clear  judgment  and  decision, 
and  the  longing  to  be  alone,  which  he  could 
not  understand,  as  he  tried  to  draw  her  away 
with  him. 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  cried,  resisting.  "  Let  me 
go,  please  let  me  go  !  Please  ! " 

He  had  already  dropped  her  wrist. 

"  Come  to-morrow,"  she  added  quickly. 

And  all  her  lost  youth  was  in  her  as  she 
lightly  turned  and  went  from  him  up  the  steps. 
Again  he  stood  still,  following  her  with  his  eyes, 
but  an  age  had  passed,  with  Harmon's  life,  be 
tween  that  time  and  this. 

He  understood  better,  when  he  himself  was 
alone,  walking  far  on,  through  the  damp  wind, 
by  the  shore  of  the  lake,  past  the  big  railway 
station,  just  then  in  one  of  its  fits  of  silence, 
past  the  wooden  piers  built  out  into  the  lake 
for  the  steamers,  and  out  beyond,  not  counting 
his  steps,  nor  seeing  things,  with  bent  head,  and 
one  hand  catching  nervously  at  the  breast  of  his 
coat. 

He  understood  Helen,  for  he  also  had  need 
of  being  alone  to  face  the  tremendous  contrast 
of  the  hour  and  to  digest  in  secret  the  huge 
joy  he  was  ashamed  to  show  to  himself,  because 
it  was  for  the  death  of  a  man  whose  existence 
had  darkened  his  own.  Because  Harmon  was 


202  A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY 

suddenly  dead,  the  sleeping  hope  of  twenty 
years  had  waked  with  deep  life  and  strength. 
Time  and  age  were  rolled  away  like  a  mist 
before  the  morning  breeze,  the  world  was  young 
again,  and  the  rose  of  yesterday  was  once  more 
the  lovely  flower  of  to-day. 

Yet  he  was  too  brave  a  man,  and  too  good,  to 
let  himself  rejoice  cruelly  in  Harmon's  death, 
any  more  than  he  would  have  gloried,  in  his 
younger  days,  over  an  enemy  fallen  in  fight. 
But  it  was  hard  to  struggle  against  this  instinct, 
deep  rooted  and  strong  in  humanity  ages  be 
fore  Achilles  dragged  Hector  round  the  walls  of 
Troy.  Christianity  has  made  it  mean  to  insult 
the  dead  and  their  memory.  For  what  we  call 
honour  comes  to  us  from  chivalry  and  knight 
hood,  which  grew  out  of  Christian  doings  when 
men  believed ;  and  though  non-Christian  people 
have  their  standards  of  right  and  wrong,  they 
have  not  our  sort  of  honour,  nor  anything  like 
it,  and  cannot  in  the  least  understand  it. 

But  Wimpole  was  made  happy  by  Harmon's 
death,  and  he  himself  could  not  deny  it.  That 
was  another  matter,  and  one  over  which  he  had 
no  control.  His  satisfaction  was  in  the  main 
disinterested,  being  on  Helen's  behalf ;  for  though 
he  hoped,  he  was  very  far  from  believing  that 
she  would  marry  him,  now  that  she  was  a 
widow.  He  had  not  even  guessed  that  she  had 


A   ROSE  OF   YESTERDAY  203 

loved  him  long.  It  was  chiefly  because  his 
whole  nature  had  been  suffering  so  sincerely  for 
her  sake  during  the  long  hours  since  he  had  read 
the  paragraph  in  the  paper,  that  he  was  now  so 
immensely  happy.  He  tried  to  call  up  again 
the  last  conversation  in  the  dark,  by  the  river ; 
but  though  the  words  both  he  and  she  had 
spoken  came  back  in  broken  echoes,  they  seemed 
to  have  no  meaning,  and  he  could  not  explain  to 
himself  how  he  could  possibly  have  stood  there, 
wrenching  at  the  cold  iron  rail  to  steady  his 
nerves,  less  than  half  an  hour  ago.  It  was  in 
credible.  He  felt  like  a  man  who  has  been  in 
the  delirium  of  a  fever,  in  which  he  has  talked 
foolishly  and  struck  out  wildly  at  his  friends, 
and  who  cannot  believe  such  things  of  himself 
when  he  is  recovering,  though  he  dimly  remem 
bers  them,  with  a  sort  of  half-amused  shame  for 
his  weakness. 

Wimpole  did  not  know  how  long  he  wandered 
by  the  lake  in  the  windy  darkness,  before  he  felt 
that  he  had  control  of  speech  and  action  again 
and  found  himself  near  the  bridge,  going  towards 
his  hotel.  It  was  less  than  half  an  hour,  per 
haps,  but  ever  afterwards,  when  he  thought  of 
it,  he  seemed  to  have  walked  up  and  down  all 
night,  a  hundred  times  past  the  railway  station, 
a  hundred  times  along  the  row  of  steamboat 
piers,  struggling  with  the  impression  that  he 


204  A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

had  no  right  to  be  perfectly  happy,  and  fighting 
off  the  instinct  to  rejoice  in  Harmon's  death. 

But  Helen  had  fled  to  her  own  room  and  had 
locked  the  door  upon  the  world.  To  her,  as  to 
Wimpole,  it  would  have  seemed  horrible  to  be 
frankly  glad  that  her  husband  was  dead.  But 
she  had  no  such  instinct.  She  had  been  dazed 
beyond  common  sense  and  speech  by  the  sudden 
relief  from  the  strain  she  had  borne  so  strongly 
and  bravely.  She  had  been  dazzled  by  the  light 
of  freedom  as  a  man  let  out  of  a  dark  prison 
after  half  a  lifetime  of  captivity.  She  had  been 
half  stunned  by  the  instant  release  of  all  the 
springs  of  her  nature,  long  forced  back  upon 
themselves  by  the  sheer  strength  of  her  con 
science.  And  yet  she  was  sorry  for  the  dead 
man. 

Far  away  in  her  past  youth  she  remembered 
his  handsome  face,  his  bright  eyes,  his  strong 
vitality,  his  pleasant  voice,  and  the  low  ringing 
tone  of  it  that  had  touched  her  and  brought  her 
to  the  ruin  of  her  marriage,  and  she  remem 
bered  that  for  a  time  she  had  half  loved  him  and 
ybelieved  love  whole.  She  is  a  hard  and  cruel 
woman  who  has  not  a  little  pitiful  tenderness 
left  for  a  dead  past,  —  though  it  be  buried  under 
a  hideous  present,  —  and  some  kind  memory  of 
the  man  she  has  called  dear. 

Helen  thought  of  his  face  as  he  was  lying 


A    ROSE    OF   YESTERDAY  205 

dead  now,  white  and  stony,  but  somehow,  in  her 
kindness,  it  became  the  face  of  long  ago,  and 
was  not  like  him  as  when  she  had  seen  him  last. 
The  touch  of  death  is  strangely  healing.  She 
had  no  tears,  but  there  was  a  dim  softness  in 
her  eyes,  for  the  man  who  was  gone  ;  not  for  the 
man  who  had  insulted  her,  tortured  her,  struck 
her,  but  for  the  husband  she  had  married  long 
ago. 

The  other,  the  incarnate  horror  of  her  mature 
life,  had  dropped  from  existence,  leaving  his 
place  full  of  the  light  in  which  she  was  there 
after  to  live,  and  in  the  bright  peace  she  saw 
Wimpole's  face,  as  he  waited  for  her. 

In  the  midst  of  her  thoughts  was  the  enig 
matic  spectre  of  the  world,  the  familiar  tor 
mentor  of  those  with  whom  the  world  has 
anything  to  do  —  a  vast,  disquieting  question- 
mark  to  their  actions.  What  would  the  world 
say,  when  she  married  Wimpole? 

What  could  it  say?  It  knew,  if  it  knew 
anything  of  her,  that  her  husband  had  been 
little  better  than  a  beast  —  no  better;  worse, 
perhaps.  It  knew  that  Wimpole  was  a  man  in 
thousands,  and  perhaps  it  knew  that  he  had  been 
faithful  to  her  mere  name  in  his  heart  during 
the  best  of  his  years.  She  had  no  enemies  to 
cast  a  shadow  upon  her  future  by  slurring  her 
past. 


206  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

Yet  she  had  heard  the  world  talk,  and  the 
names  of  women  who  had  married  old  friends 
within  the  first  year  of  widowhood  were  rarely 
untouched  by  scandal.  She  did  not  fear  that, 
but  in  her  heart  there  was  a  sort  of  unacknow 
ledged  dread  lest  Wimpole,  who  was  growing 
old  in  patience,  should  be  patient  to  the  end 
out  of  some  over-fine  scruple  for  her  fair 
name. 

Then  came  the  thought  of  her  new  widow 
hood  and  rebuked  her,  and  with  the  old  habit 
of  fighting  battles  against  her  heart  for  her 
conscience,  she  turned  fiercely  against  her  long- 
silent  love  that  was  crying  freedom  so  loudly 
in  her  ears.  Harmon  just  dead,  not  buried  yet, 
perhaps,  and  she  already  thinking  of  marriage ! 
Said  in  those  words,  it  seemed  contemptible, 
though  all  her  loyalty  to  her  husband  had  been 
for  a  word's  sake,  almost  since  the  beginning. 

But  then,  again,  as  she  closed  her  eyes  to 
think  sensibly,  she  set  her  lips  to  stay  the 
smile  at  her  scruples.  Her  loyalty  had  been 
all  for  the  vow,  for  the  meaning  of  the  bond, 
for  the  holiness  of  marriage  itself.  It  had  not 
been  the  loyalty  of  love  for  Harmon,  and  Har 
mon  being  dead,  its  only  object  was  gone.  The 
rest,  the  mourning  for  the  unloved  dead,  was  a 
canon  of  the  world,  not  a  law  of  God.  For 
decency,  she  would  wear  black  for  a  short  time, 


A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY  207 

but  in  her  heart  she  was  free,  and  free  in  her 
conscience. 

To  the  last,  she  had  borne  all,  and  had  been 
ready  to  bear  more.  Her  last  word  had  gone 
at  once,  with  the  message  of  forgiveness  he  had 
asked,  and  though  he  had  been  dead  before 
it  reached  him  he  could  not  have  doubted  her 
answer,  for  he  knew  her.  If  she  had  been  near 
him,  she  would  have  been  with  him  to  the  end, 
to  help  him,  and  to  comfort  him  if  she  could. 
She  had  been  ready  to  go  back  to  him,  and  the 
letter  that  was  to  have  told  him  so  was  already 
gone  upon  its  fruitless  journey,  to  return  to  her 
after  a  long  time  as  a  reminder  of  what  she  had 
been  willing  to  bear.  She  could  not  reproach 
herself  with  any  weakness  or  omission,  and  her 
reason  told  her  plainly  that  although  she  must 
mourn  outwardly  to  please  the  world,  it  would 
be  folly  to  refuse  her  heart  the  thought  of  a 
happiness  for  which  she  had  paid  beforehand 
with  half  a  lifetime  of  pain. 

When  that  was  all  at  once  and  unmistakably 
clear  to  her,  she  let  her  head  sink  gently  back 
upon  the  cushion  of  the  chair,  her  set  lips  parted, 
and  she  softly  sighed,  as  though  the  day  were 
done  at  last  and  her  rest  had  come.  As  she  sat 
there,  the  lines  of  sorrow  and  suffering  were 
smoothed  away  and  the  faint  colour  crept  slowly 
and  naturally  to  her  cheeks,  as  her  eyes  closed 


208  A    ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

by  slow  degrees  under  the  shaded  light  of  the 
lamp.  One  more  restful  sigh,  her  sweet  breath 
came  slower  and  more  evenly,  one  hand  fell 
upon  her  knee  with  upward  palm  and  loosened 
fingers  that  did  not  move  again;  she  was  asleep. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

So  ends  the  history  of  a  day  unforgotten  in 
the  memories  of  the  men  and  women,  young  and 
old,  for  whom  it  chanced  to  be  life's  turning- 
t/point.  Looking  back  into  the  full,  past  years 
through  which  the  fight  has  been  fought,  most 
of  us  still  know  one  day  and  hour  in  which  the 
tide  of  battle  turned ;  we  see  the  faces  that  rose 
up  against  us,  and  those  that  stood  beside  us  in 
the  struggle;  we  hear  the  words  spoken  which 
cheered  us  to  the  great  charge,  or  turned  our 
hearts  cold  and  our  daring  to  fear ;  even  our 
bodily  hearts,  handfuls  of  wandering  atoms  of 
which  not  one  is  left  in  us  from  those  times, 
answer  the  deep  memory  and  beat  loud,  or  fail, 
as  those  other  atoms  did  in  the  decisive  instant 
when  one  blow  more  meant  victory,  and  one 
blow  less,  defeat. 

Helen's  last  letter  to  her  husband  came  back 
to  her  like  a  ghost,  after  many  weeks,  when  she 
was  going  over  Harmon's  papers.  There  it  lay, 
unopened,  as  she  had  sealed  it,  full  of  the  words 
that  had  seemed  to  cost  her  life  —  the  promise 

f  209 


210  A    ROSE   OF   YESTEPwDAY 

to  pay  a  debt  not  justly  owed,  which  no  man 
could  claim  now.  She  burned  it  unread,  for  she 
knew  every  line  of  it  by  heart.  To  read  it,  even 
to  glance  at  the  writing,  she  thought,  would 
rouse  some  pride  in  her  for  what  she  had  done 
and  stir  a  sort  of  gladness  in  her  soul,  because 
the  man  was  dead  and  she  was  safe  from  him 
forever.  She  would  not  let  herself  feel  such 
,  x  things.  Unconsciously  she  had  fought  with 
herself  for  a  principle,  not,  as  most  of  us  do, 
for  the  intimate  satisfaction  of  having  done 
right,  which  is  in  itself  a  reward,  an  object, 
and  an  aim  for  ambition,  and  therefore  not 
wholly  unselfish,  not  wholly  noble,  though  often 
.,  both  high  and  worthy. 

i  Right,  as  we  understand  it,  is  the  law  for 
each  individual,  the  principle  is  for  all  mankind; 
and  as  the  whole  is  greater  than  any  of  its  parts, 
so  is  the  principle  greater  than  the  law.  The 
law  says,  "  Whosoever  sheddeth  man's  blood,  by 
man  shall  his  blood  be  shed."  But  the  Blood 
which  was  shed  for  all  men  required  of  man  no 
lawful  avenging. 

Moreover,  law  and  all  forms  of  law  are  only 
deductions  made  by  the  intelligence  from  the 
right  instincts  of  the  people's  heart.  Laws 
which  are  evolved  out  of  existing  circumstances, 
backwards,  as  it  were,  to  correct  bad  results,  are 
rarely  anything  more  than  measures  of  expedi- 


A    ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  211 

ency  and  have  not  much  lasting  power.  They 
are  medicines,  not  nourishment  for  humanity  — 
a  cure  for  the  sick,  not  a  rule  of  life  for  the 
sound  and  whole. 

When  such  enactments  of  law-givers  tend 
against  those  impulses  which  spring  from  the 
roots  of  human  feeling,  taking  into  considera 
tion  the  happiness  of  the  few  and  not  the  good 
of  the  many,  they  are  bad  medicines  for  the 
world.  The  instant,  quick  release  by  divorce 
from  all  troubles,  great  and  small,  between  man 
and  wife,  is  no  better  than  that  other  instant, 
quick  relief  from  bodily  pain,  which  is  morphia, 
a  material  danger  no  longer  at  all  dim  or 
shadowy. 

We  are  a  cowardly  generation,  and  men  shrink 
from  suffering  now,  as  their  fathers  shrank  from 
dishonour  in  rougher  times.  The  Lotus  hangs 
within  the  reach  of  all,  and  in  the  lives  of  many 
il  it  is  always  afternoon,"  as  for  the  Lotus  Eaters. 
The  fruit  takes  many  shapes  and  names ;  it  is 
called  Divorce,  it  is  called  Morphia,  it  is  called 
Compromise,  it  is  designated  in  a  thousand  ways 
and  justified  by  ten  thousand  specious  arguments, 
but  it  means  only  one  thing :  Escape  from  Pain. 

Soft-hearted  and  weak-nerved  people  ask  why 
humanity  should  suffer  at  all,  and  they  hail  every 
invention,  moral  or  material,  which  can  make 
life  easier  for  the  moment,  as  a  heaven-sent  bless- 


212  A   HOSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

ing.  Why  should  we  be  uncomfortable,  even  an 
hour,  when  a  little  dose  of  poison  can  create  a 
lazy  oblivion  ?  That  is  the  drunkard's  reasoning, 
the  opium-eater's  defence,  the  invalid's  excuse. 
It  is  no  argument  for  men  who  call  themselves 
the  world's  masters. 

Civilization  and  Progress  are  not  the  same 
thing.  We  have  too  much  progress  and  too 
little  civilization  nowadays.  Progress  is  omnivo 
rous,  eager  after  new  things,  seeking  above  all 
to  save  trouble  and  get  money.  Civilization  is 
eclectic,  slow,  painstaking,  wise,  willing  to  buy 
good  at  the  price  it  is  worth.  Civilization  gave 
us  marriage,  in  respecting  which  we  are  above 
animals.  Progress  is  giving  us  divorce,  whole 
sale,  cheap,  immoral,  a  degradation  beneath  that 
of  those  primitive  peoples,  who  make  no  prom 
ises  and  break  none,  who  do  not  set  up  right  as 
a  fashion  and  wrong  as  a  practice,  the  truth  for 
the  ensign  and  the  lie  for  the  course. 

Helen  Harmon's  existence  turned  out  happily 
in  the  end.  She  was  fortunate  at  last,  before 
the  love  of  life  was  gone.  But  for  the  accident 
of  her  husband's  sudden  death,  she  would  have 
had  to  face  her  cruel  difficulties  to  death's  solu 
tion  ;  and  with  her  character  she  would  not  have 
been  defeated,  for  she  had  on  her  side  the  accu 
mulated  force  of  all  womanliness  against  the 
individual  evil  that  was  her  familiar  enemy. 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  213 

Far  should  it  be  from  the  story-teller  to  draw 
a  moral ;  furthest  of  all,  that  false  moral  that 
makes  faith  and  truth  and  courage  get  worldly 
pay  for  their  services  —  servants  to  be  hired  as 
guides  and  porters  to  happiness.  In  Helen's 
case  it  chanced  that  she  got  what  she  wanted. 
Fate  had  spent  its  force  against  her,  and  peace 
was  with  her  thereafter. 

Even  "  poor  Archie "  found  his  vocation  at 
last.  The  day  that  had  meant  so  much  to  many 
had  brought  him  a  sort  of  awakening  of  mind, 
an  increase  of  reason  and  a  growth  of  character. 
His  one  strong  instinct  became  a  dominating 
force.  He  would  save  life,  many  lives,  so  long 
as  he  had  strength.  Sylvia  would  never  care 
for  him,  of  course ;  he  said  to  himself  that  she 
should  at  least  see  what  he  could  do.  He  re 
membered  with  constant  longing  the  wild  delight 
he  had  felt  when  he  had  brought  the  little  child 
safely  to  the  deck  of  the  ferryboat  on  the  North 
River,  and  when,  bruised  and  bleeding,  he  had 
stopped  the  bolting  horses  in  the  New  York  street. 

He  unfolded  his  plan  to  the  colonel  first,  be 
cause  he  was  a  man,  and  must  understand ;  then 
he  told  his  mother.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
said  against  it,  except  that  it  was  dangerous. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  join  a  Life-Saving 
Station  on  the  coast.  It  was  the  one  thing  he 
could  do,  and  he  knew  it. 


214  A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  with  his  elementary 
philosophy,  "  if  I  get  drowned  the  first  time, 
there  won't  be  anything  gained.  But  if  I  can 
help  to  save  a  few  people  before  that,  it  won't 
matter  so  much,  you  know.  It'll  be  like  money, 
when  you  get  something  for  it." 

The  rude  bravery  of  the  argument  brought  a 
look  into  "Wimpole's  eyes  which  had  not  been 
there  for  a  long  time.  Helen  had  a  lump  in  her 
throat. 

"  But  if  anything  should  happen  to  you  — ' 
she  began,  and  stopped. 

"  "Well,  then,"  answered  Archie,  "  I  suppose 
I'd  go  to  heaven,  shouldn't  I?  And  that  would 
be  all  right,  just  the  same." 

And  thereupon  he  began  to  whistle  thought 
fully.  It  was  very  simple  in  his  eyes,  and  very 
desirable.  Life  seemed  to  him  to  be  man's  first 
and  greatest  possession,  as  it  is.  For  him,  its 
possibilities  were  small,  but  he  had  a  dim  per 
ception  of  its  value  to  others,  whom  he  called 
"  clever  "  in  wholesale  distinction  from  himself. 
It  was  worth  having,  worth  keeping,  and  worth 
saving,  for  them,  at  the  risk  of  his  own. 

As  for  Miss  Rachel  "Wimpole,  as  soon  as  she 
heard  of  Harmon's  death,  she  knew  that  her 
brother  would  marry  Helen.  She  had  syste 
matically  disapproved  of  his  life-long  devotion 
to  a  woman  beyond  his  reach,  while  she  had 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  215 

involuntarily  respected  in  him  the  same  un 
changing  faithfulness  which  had  guarded  her 
own  heart  against  everything  else  for  so  many 
years,  a  little  stronghold  of  no  great  importance 
to  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  which  held  all  that 
was  most  dear  and  precious  to  her.  So  here  and 
there,  in  the  chaos  of  the  middle  ages,  some 
strong,  poor  gentleman,  a  mere  atom  in  the 
wide  Holy  Empire,  may  have  kept  his  small 
castle  and  his  narrow  acres  of  meagre  land 
against  all  comers. 

When  Harmon  was  dead  and  gone,  Miss  Wim- 
pole's  disapprobation  instantly  disappeared,  and 
she  never  at  any  time  afterwards  seemed  to  re 
member  how  she  had  felt  about  the  matter  dur 
ing  so  many  years.  Wimpole  approached  her 
with  some  diffidence,  and  she  met  him  with 
genuine  enthusiasm.  She  was  one  of  those  rare 
people  who  can  make  others  vicars  of  their  hap 
piness,  so  to  say,  whose  place  has  been  long 
darkened  by  sad  clouds,  but  who  see  the  sun 
shine  far  away  on  another's  land  and  are  glad 
for  that  other  one's  sake. 

It  is  a  sign  of  our  times  that  a  man  whose 
fancy  leads  him  now  and  then  to  make  a  story 
of  characters  almost  ideal,  should  feel  as  if  he 
owed  his  reader  a  sort  of  apology  for  so  far  dis 
regarding  the  common  fashion.  There  must 
always  be  a  conflict  between  the  real  and  the 


216  A   ROSE    OF    YESTERDAY 

ideal,  between  what  we  are  told  is  knowledge 
and  what  our  hearts  tell  us  is  truth,  between 
the  evil  men  do  and  the  good  which  is  beyond 
their  strength,  but  not  above  their  aspiration. 
And  therefore  the  old  question  stands  unan 
swered  :  Do  most  people  wish  to  be  shown  what 
they  are,  or  what  they  might  be  ?  In  order  to 
avoid  the  difficulty  of  replying,  fashion  comes 
forward  and  says  to-day  that  art  is  truth,  and 
infers  that  art  must  be  accurate  and  photo 
graphic  and  closely  imitative. 

What  has  art  to  do  with  truth  ?  Is  not  truth 
the  imagination's  deadly  enemy  ?  If  the  two 
meet,  they  must  fight  to  the  death.  It  is  there 
fore  better,  in  principle,  to  keep  them  apart, 
and  let  each  survive  separately  with  their  uses. 
Two  and  two  make  four,  says  Truth.  Never 
mind  facts,  says  Art,  let  us  imagine  a  world  in 
which  two  and  two  make  five,  and  see  whether 
we  can  get  anything  pleasant,  or  amusing,  out 
of  the  supposition.  Let  us  sometimes  talk  about 
men  and  women  who  are  unimaginably  perfect, 
and  let  us  find  out  what  they  would  do  with  the 
troubles  that  make  sinners  of  most  of  us,  and 
puzzle  us,  and  turn  our  hair  grey. 

Matter,  says  the  mystic,  is  the  inexhaustible 
source  and  active  cause  of  all  harm.  Imagina 
tion  can  be  altogether  free  from  matter.  That 
is  what  we  mean  by  the  ideal,  and  men  may  say 


A   ROSE   OF   YESTERDAY  217 

what  they  will,  it  is  worth  having.  A  man  must 
know  the  enemy  against  whom  he  is  matched, 
if  he  hopes  to  win;  he  must  know  his  adver 
sary's  fence,  his  thrusts  and  feints  and  parries. 
Truth  will  give  him  that  knowledge.  But  be 
yond  the  enemy,  and  beyond  victory  over  him, 
there  is  the  aspiration,  the  hope,  the  aim  of  all 
life  —  and  that  is  the  ideal,  if  it  is  anything  at 
all  worth  hoping ;  it  is  transcendent,  outside  of 
all  facts  and  perhaps  of  any  attainment,  and 
only  the  imagination  can  ever  tell  us  what  it 
may  be. 

Yet  those  who  guess  at  it,  dwell  on  it  and  love 
it,  and  it  comes  to  be  the  better  part  of  their 
lives.  The  world  holds  two  great  classes  of 
mankind,  artists  and  truth-seekers.  There  are 
millions  of  artists,  there  always  have  been,  and 
there  always  will  be.  One  in  each  million,  per 
haps,  is  born  with  the  gift  of  creation  and  knows 
the  tools  of  his  trade  by  instinct,  and  works  with 
them,  as  soon  as  he  is  old  enough  to  think.  The 
rest  are  not  less  artists,  because  they  are  not 
producers.  They  have  the  same  aspirations,  the 
same  longings,  the  same  tastes,  though  they  are 
not  makers,  as  he  is ;  and  when  he  has  finished 
his  work,  they  look  at  it  with  eyes  like  his,  and 
enjoy  even  more  perfectly  than  he,  for  they  see 
the  expression  of  a  thought  like  their  own,  while 
all  that  he  could  not  express  is  hidden  from  them 


218  A   ROSE   OF    YESTERDAY 

and  does  not  disturb  their  satisfaction.  Art  for 
art's  sake,  if  such  a  thing  could  be,  would  mean 
that  the  one  man  would  work  just  as  hard  to 
give  his  imagination  a  shape,  even  if  the  rest  of 
the  million  were  not  there  to  understand  him. 
But  he  knows  that  they  are  all  living  and  that 
the  ideal  for  which  he  labours  is  divine  to  them 
all,  whether  he  fail  or  whether  he  succeed. 


THE    END 


TAQUISARA. 


BY 


F.  MARION  CRAWFORD, 

Author  of  "Saracinesca"  "  Pietro  Ghislcri"  "Katharine 
Lauderdale"  " The  Ralstons"  etc. 


Two  Volumes.    i6mo.    In  Box,  $3.00. 


"  Mr.  Crawford  once  more  shows  that  mastery  of  his  art  which  entitles 
him  to  rank  among  the  very  foremost  of  living  novelists.  .  .  .  The  interest 
of  the  reader  is  at  once  compelled,  while  there  is  enacted  a  drama  as  dark 
and  terrible  as  some  legend  of  the  Medici  or  the  Borgias,  and  so  exqui 
site  is  the  art  of  the  narrator  that  the  reader's  interest  is  never  suffered  to 
relax. 

" '  Taquisara '  the  Sicilian,  the  Princess  Veronica,  and  the  invalid  Gian- 
luca  are  characters  drawn  with  the  power  and  poetic  feeling  that  Mr.  Craw 
ford's  readers  know  so  well." — New  York  Sun. 

"The  plot  needs  no  telling;  it  is  one  of  Mr.  Crawford's  best,  and  the 
scene,  Naples,  and  the  mountain  country  back  of  it,  united  with  the  char 
acteristics  and  temperaments  of  the  Italian  people,  give  the  noted  author 
splendid  opportunities  to  realize  his  best  work.  Mr.  Crawford  continues 
to  reap  fame  with  every  novel  that  comes  from  his  pen."  —  Boston  Budget. 

" '  Taquisara '  in  vigor  of  language  and  sustained  interest  of  plot  easily 
ranks  with  Mr.  Crawford's  best  work,  which,  by  the  way,  is  quite  as  good 
as  the  best  by  any  living  writer."  —  Oneonta  Herald. 

" '  Taquisara,'  as  its  name  indicates,  is  another  of  Mr.  Crawford's  happily 
told  stories  of  Italian  life,  and  must  find  many  admirers.  Here  the  author 
is  at  his  best.  He  knows  his  Italy  —  who  could  have  read  his  '  Casa 
Braccio '  and  not  been  conscious  of  it  ?  In  this  last  novel  the  interest  is 
unflagging,  and  all  the  imaginative  charm  and  literary  force  which  belong 
to  the  author  are  to  be  found." 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


CASA  BRACCIO. 

BY 

F.   MARION  CRAWFORD. 

WITH  THIRTEEN   FULL-PAGE   ILLUSTRATIONS   FROM   DRAWINGS 
BY   CASTAIGNE. 

Buckram.    2  vols.,  in  box.    $2.00. 


PRESS    COMMENTS. 

"  Mr.  Crawford's  latest  novel,  '  Casa  Braccio,'  may  not  improbably  come 
to  be  regarded  as  the  supreme  masterpiece  in  fiction  —  of  the  English  tongue 
at  least  —  that  has  appeared  since  '  Daniel  Deronda.'  Its  breadth  of  human 
emotion,  its  vividness  of  individualities,  its  splendor  of  coloring,  all  entitle 
this  novel  to  a  lasting  place  in  the  literature  of  fiction." —  Chicago  Inter- 
Ocean. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  won  success  in  two  different  fields  of  fiction.  In  this, 
his  present  work,  he  combines  these  fields,  and  wins  a  greater  success  than 
ever.  There  is  but  little  question  that  '  Casa  Braccio '  will  prove  to  be  the 
great  novel  of  the  year."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"We  are  grateful  when  Mr.  Crawford  keeps  to  his  Italy.  The  poetry 
and  enchantment  of  the  land  are  all  his  own,  and  'Casa  Braccio1  gives 
promise  of  being  his  masterpiece.  .  .  .  He  has  the  life,  the  beauty,  the 
heart  and  the  soul  of  Italy  at  the  tips  of  his  fingers."  —  Los  Angeles  Ex 
press. 

"Admirably  strong  and  impressive."  —  Boston  Beacon. 

"  From  all  points  of  view  '  Casa  Braccio'  is  the  most  artistically  finished, 
dramatic,  and  powerful  work  Mr.  Crawford  has  produced."  —  New  York 
World. 

"  The  people  who  are  fond  of  prating  about  the  thinness  of  American 
novels  should  read  '  Casa  Braccio,'  for  it  is  rich  in  all  the  qualities  that  go  to 
make  up  a  good  story.  ...  It  is  safe  to  say  that  any  one  who  reads  one  or 
two  of  Crawford's  stories  will  extend  his  acquaintance  with  this  singularly 
versatile  and  charming  writer." —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66    FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


THE  RALSTONS. 

A  Sequel  to  "  Katharine  Lauderdale." 
BY 

F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 
a  vols.      i6mo.     Cloth.     $2.00. 


PRESS    COMMENTS. 

"The  interest  is  unflagging  throughout.  Never  has  the  author  done 
more  brilliant,  artistic  work  than  here." —  Ohio  State  Journal. 

"It  is  immensely  entertaining;  once  in  the  full  swing  of  the  narrative, 
one  is  carried  on  quite  irresistibly  to  the  end.  The  style  throughout  is  easy 
and  graceful,  and  the  text  abounds  in  wise  and  witty  reflections  on  the 
realities  of  existence."  —  Boston  Beacon. 

"  The  book  is  admirably  written;  it  contains  passages  full  of  distinction; 
it  is  instinct  with  intensity  of  purpose;  the  characters  are  drawn  with  a  liv 
ing  touch."  —  London  Daily  News. 

"  Mr.  Crawford's  new  story,  '  The  Ralstons,'  is  as  powerful  a  work  as 
any  that  has  come  from  his  pen.  .  .  .  Harmonized  by  a  strength  and 
warmth  of  imagination  uncommon  in  modern  fiction,  the  story  will  be  heartily 
enjoyed  by  every  one  who  reads  it."  —  Edinburgh  Scotsman.. 

"  As  a  picture  of  a  certain  kind  of  New  York  life,  it  is  correct  and  literal; 
as  a  study  of  human  nature,  it  is  realistic  enough  to  be  modern,  and  roman 
tic  enough  to  be  of  the  age  of  Trollope."—  Chicago  Herald. 

"  The  whole  group  of  character  studies  is  strong  and  vivid."  —  Literary 
World. 

"  Mr.  Crawford's  pen  portraits  are  wonderfully  vivid.  His  analysis  of 
motive  is  keen  and  subtle.  His  portrayal  of  passion,  be  it  love  or  avarice, 
is  most  graphic."  —  Boston  Advertiser. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW   YORK. 


UNIFORM    EDITION 

OF  THE  WORKS  OF 

F.   MARION    CRAWFORD. 

i2mo.    Cloth.    Price  $1.00  per  volume. 


KATHARINE    LAUDERDALE. 

The  first  of  a  series  of  novels  dealing  with  New  York  life. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  at  his  best  is  a  great  novelist,  and  in  '  Katharine  Lauder- 
dale'  we  have  him  at  his  best."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"A  most  admirable  novel,  excellent  in  style,  flashing  with  humor,  and 
full  of  the  ripest  and  wisest  reflections  upon  men  and  women." —  The  West 
minster  Gazette. 

"  It  is  the  first  time,  we  think,  in  American  fiction  that  any  such  breadth 
of  view  has  shown  itself  in  the  study  of  our  social  framework."  —  Life. 

"  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  the  story  is  skilfully  and  picturesquely 
written,  portraying  sharply  individual  characters  in  well-defined  surround 
ings." —  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

" '  Katharine  Lauderdale '  is  a  tale  of  New  York,  and  is  up  to  the  highest 
level  of  his  work.  In  some  respects  it  will  probably  be  regarded  as  his  best. 
None  of  his  works,  with  the  exception  of  '  Mr.  Isaacs,'  shows  so  clearly  his 
skill  as  a  literary  artist."  —  San  Francisco  Evening  Bulletin. 

PIETRO    GHISLERI. 

"  The  imaginative  richness,  the  marvellous  ingenuity  of  plot,  the  power 
and  subtlety  of  the  portrayal  of  character,  the  charm  of  the  romantic  envi 
ronment,  —  the  entire  atmosphere,  indeed,  —  rank  this  novel  at  once  among 
the  great  creations."  —  The  Boston  Budget. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW   YORK. 


SARACINESCA. 


"  His  highest  achievement,  as  yet,  in  the  realms  of  fiction.  The  work 
has  two  distinct  merits,  either  of  which  would  serve  to  make  it  great,  —  that 
oi  telling  a  perfect  story  in  a  perfect  way,  and  of  giving  a  graphic  picture 
of  Roman  society  in  the  last  days  of  the  pope's  temporal  power.  .  .  .  The 
story  is  exquisitely  told."  —  Boston  Traveler. 

"  One  of  the  most  engrossing  novels  we  have  ever  read."  —  Boston 
Times. 

SANT'    ILARIO. 

A  sequel  to  "  Saracinesca." 

"  The  author  shows  steady  and  constant  improvement  in  his  art.  '  Sam" 
Ilario '  is  a  continuation  of  the  chronicles  of  the  Saracinesca  family.  .  .  . 
A  singularly  powerful  and  beautiful  story.  .  .  .  Admirably  developed, 
with  a  naturalness  beyond  praise.  ...  It  must  rank  with  '  Greifenstein '  as 
the  best  work  the  author  has  produced.  It  fulfils  every  requirement  of 
artistic  fiction.  It  brings  out  what  is  most  impressive  in  human  action, 
without  owing  any  of  its  effectiveness  to  sensationalism  or  artifice.  It  is 
natural,  fluent  in  evolution,  accordant  with  experience,  graphic  in  descrip 
tion,  penetrating  in  analysis,  and  absorbing  in  interest."  —  New  York 
Tribune. 

DON    ORSINO. 

A  continuation  of  "Saracinesca"  and  "Sanf  Ilario." 

"  The  third  in  a  rather  remarkable  series  of  novels  dealing  with  three 
generations  of  the  Saracinesca  family,  entitled  respectively  '  Saracinesca,' 
'  Sant'  Ilario,'  and  '  Don  Orsino,'  and  these  novels  present  an  important 
study  of  Italian  life,  customs,  and  conditions  during  the  present  century. 
Each  one  of  these  novels  is  worthy  of  very  careful  reading,  and  offers 
exceptional  enjoyment  in  many  ways,  in  the  fascinating  absorption  of  good 
fiction,  in  interest  of  faithful  historic  accuracy,  and  in  charm  of  style.  The 
'  new  Italy  '  is  strikingly  revealed  in  '  Don  Orsino.'"  —  Boston  Budget. 

"  We  are  inclined  to  regard  the  book  as  the  most  ingenious  of  all  Mr. 
Crawford's  fictions.  Certainly  it  is  the  best  novel  of  the  season."  —  Even 
ing  Bulletin. 

THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


WITH   THE   IMMORTALS. 

"  Altogether  an  admirable  piece  of  art  worked  in  the  spirit  of  a  thorough 
artist.     Every  reader  of  cultivated  tastes  will  find  it  a  book  prolific  in  enter 


tainment  of  the  most  refined  description,  and  to  all  such  we  commend  it 
heartily."  —  Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


MARZIO'S    CRUCIFIX. 

"  We  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  this  work  belongs  to  the  highest 
department  of  character-painting  in  words." —  Churchman. 

"  We  have  repeatedly  had  occasion  to  say  that  Mr.  Crawford  possesses  in 
an  extraordinary  degree  the  art  of  constructing  a  story.  His  sense  of  pro 
portion  is  just,  and  his  narrative  flows  along  with  ease  and  perspicuity.  It 
is  as  if  it  could  not  have  been  written  otherwise,  so  naturally  does  the  story 
unfold  itself,  and  so  logical  and  consistent  is  the  sequence  of  incident  after 
incident.  As  a  story  '  Marzio's  Crucifix*  is  perfectly  constructed."  —  New 
York  Commercial  Advertiser. 


KHALED. 

A  Story  of  Arabia. 

"  Throughout  the  fascinating  story  runs  the  subtlest  analysis,  suggested 
rather  than  elaborately  worked  out,  of  human  passion  and  motive,  the  build 
ing  out  and  development  of  the  character  of  the  woman  who  becomes  the 
hero's  wife  and  whose  love  he  finally  wins,  being  an  especially  acute  and 
highly  finished  example  of  the  story-teller's  art.  .  .  .  That  it  is  beautifully 
written  and  holds  the  interest  of  the  reader,  fanciful  as  it  all  is,  to  the  very 
end,  none  who  know  the  depth  and  artistic  finish  of  Mr.  Crawford's  work 
need  be  told."  —  The  Chicago  Times. 


PAUL    PATOFF. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


MR.   ISAACS. 

A  Tale  of  Modern  India. 

"  The  writer  first  shows  the  hero  in  relation  with  the  people  of  the  East 
and  then  skilfully  brings  into  connection  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  It  is  in 
this  showing  of  the  different  effects  which  the  two  classes  of  minds  have 
upon  the  central  figure  of  the  story  that  one  of  its  chief  merits  lies.  The 
characters  are  original,  and  one  does  not  recognize  any  of  the  hackneyed 
personages  who  are  so  apt  to  be  considered  indispensable  to  novelists,  and 
which,  dressed  in  one  guise  or  another,  are  but  the  marionettes,  which  are 
all  dominated  by  the  same  mind,  moved  by  the  same  motive  force.  The  men 
are  all  endowed  with  individualism  and  independent  life  and  thought.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  strong  tinge  of  mysticism  about  the  book  which  is  one  of  its 
greatest  charms."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  No  story  of  human  experience  that  we  have  met  with  since  '  John 
Inglesant '  has  such  an  effect  of  transporting  the  reader  into  regions  differing 
from  his  own.  '  Mr.  Isaacs  '  is  the  best  novel  that  has  ever  laid  its  scenes  in 
our  Indian  dominions." —  The  Daily  News,  London. 


DR.  CLAUDIUS. 

A  True  Story. 

"  There  is  a  suggestion  of  strength,  of  a  mastery  of  facts,  of  a  fund  of 
knowledge,  that  speaks  well  for  future  production.  .  .  .  To  be  thoroughly 
enjoyed,  however,  this  book  must  be  read,  as  no  mere  cursory  notice  can 
give  an  adequate  idea  of  its  many  interesting  points  and  excellences,  for 
without  a  doubt  '  Dr.  Claudius'  is  the  most  interesting  book  that  has  been 

Eublished  for  many  months,  and  richly  deserves  a  high  place  in  the  public 
ivor."  —  St.  Louis  Spectator. 

"To  our  mind  it  by  no  means  belies  the  promises  of  its  predecessor. 
The  story,  an  exceedingly  improbable  and  romantic  one,  is  told  with  much 
skill;  the  characters  are  strongly  marked  without  any  suspicion  of  carica 
ture,  and  the  author's  ideas  on  social  and  political  subjects  are  often  brilliant 
and  always  striking.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  there  is  not  a  dull 
page  in  the  book,  which  is  peculiarly  adapted  for  the  recreation  of  student  or 
thinker."  —  Living  Church. 


TO    LEEWARD. 


"  A  story  of  remarkable  power."  —  Review  of  Reviews. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  many  strange  and  powerful  stories  of  Italian 
life,  but  none  can  be  any  stranger  or  more  powerful  than  '  To  Leeward,'  with 
its  mixture  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  innocence  and  guilt." — Cottage 
Hearth. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66    FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


A    CIGARETTE-MAKER'S    ROMANCE. 

"  It  is  a  touching  romance,  filled  with  scenes  of  great  dramatic  power." 
—  Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

"  It  is  full  of  life  and  movement,  and  is  one  of  the  best  of  Mr.  Crawford's 
books."  —  Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  interest  is  unflagging  throughout.  Never  has  Mr.  Crawford  done 
more  brilliant  realistic  work  than  here.  But  his  realism  is  only  the  case  and 
cover  for  those  intense  feelings  which,  placed  under  no  matter  what  humble 
conditions,  produce  the  most  dramatic  and  the  most  tragic  situations.  .  .  . 
This  is  a  secret  of  genius,  to  take  the  most  coarse  and  common  material,  the 
meanest  surroundings,  the  most  sordid  material  prospects,  and  out  of  the 
vehement  passions  which  sometimes  dominate  all  human  beings  to  build  up 
with  these  poor  elements  scenes  and  passages,  the  dramatic  and  emotional 
power  of  which  at  once  enforce  attention  and  awaken  the  profoundest  inter 
est." —  New  York  Tribune. 


GREIFENSTEIN. 

" '  Greifenstein '  is  a  remarkable  novel,  and  while  it  illustrates  once  more 
the  author's  unusual  versatility,  it  also  shows  that  he  has  not  been  tempted 
into  careless  writing  by  the  vogue  of  his  earlier  books.  .  .  .  There  is 
nothing  weak  or  small  or  frivolous  in  the  story.  The  author  deals  with 
tremendous  passions  working  at  the  height  of  their  energy.  His  characters 
are  stern,  rugged,  determined  men  and  women,  governed  by  powerful  preju 
dices  and  iron  conventions,  types  of  a  military  people,  in  whom  the  sense  of 
duty  has  been  cultivated  until  it  dominates  all  other  motives,  and  in  whom 
the  principle  of  '  noblesse  oblige '  is,  so  far  as  the  aristocratic  class  is  con 
cerned,  the  fundamental  rule  of  conduct.  What  such  people  may  be  capable 
of  is  startltngly  shown."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


A   ROMAN   SINGER. 

"One  of  Mr.  Crawford's  most  charming  stories  —  a  love  romance  pure 
and  simple."  —  Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  '  A  Roman  Singer'  is  one  of  his  most  finished,  compact,  and  successful 
stories,  and  contains  a  splendid  picture  of  Italian  life."  —  Toronto  Mail. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW   YORK. 


THE  THREE   FATES. 

"  The  strength  of  the  story  lies  in  its  portrayal  of  the  aspirations,  dis 
ciplinary  efforts,  trials,  and  triumphs  of  the  man  who  is  a  born  writer,  and 
who,  by  long  and  painful  experiences,  learns  the  good  that  is  in  him  and  the 
way  in  which  to  give  it  effectual  expression.  The  analytical  quality  of  the 
book  is  excellent,  and  the  individuality  of  each  one  of  the  very  dissimilar 
three  fates  is  set  forth  in  an  entirely  satisfactory  manner.  .  .  .  Mr.  Craw 
ford  has  manifestly  brought  his  best  qualities  as  a  student  of  human  nature 
and  his  finest  resources  as  a  master  of  an  original  and  picturesque  style  to 
bear  upon  this  story.  Taken  for  all  in  all  it  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing 
of  all  his  productions  in  fiction,  and  it  affords  a  view  of  certain  phases  of 
American,  or  perhaps  we  should  say  of  New  York,  life  that  have  not  hitherto 
been  treated  with  anything  like  the  same  adequacy  and  felicity." — Boston 
Beacon. 

CHILDREN   OF  THE   KING. 

A  Tale  of  Southern  Italy. 

"  A  sympathetic  reader  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  dramatic 
power  of  this  story.  The  simplicity  of  nature,  the  uncorrupted  truth  of  a 
soul,  have  been  portrayed  by  a  master-hand.  The  suddenness  of  the  unfore 
seen  tragedy  at  the  last  renders  the  incident  of  the  story  powerful  beyond 
description.  One  can  only  feel  such  sensations  as  the  last  scene  of  the  story 
incites.  It  may  be  added  that  if  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  some  stories 
unevenly,  he  has  made  no  mistakes  in  the  stories  of  Italian  life.  A  reader 
of  them  cannot  fail  to  gain  a  clearer,  fuller  acquaintance  with  the  Italians 
and  the  artistic  spirit  that  pervades  the  country."  —  M.  L.  B.  in  Syracuse 
Journal. 


THE  WITCH   OF   PRAGUE. 

A  Fantastic  Tale. 
ILLUSTRATED  BY  W.  J.  HENNESSY. 

"  '  The  Witch  of  Prague '  is  so  remarkable  a  book  as  to  be  certain  of  as 
wide  a  popularity  as  any  of  its  predecessors.  The  keenest  interest  for  most 
readers  will  lie  in  its  demonstration  of  the  latest  revelations  of  hypnotic 
science.  ...  It  is  a  romance  of  singular  daring  and  power." — London 
Academy. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  in  many  keys,  but  never  in  so  strange  a  one 
as  that  which  dominates  '  The  Witch  of  Prague.'  .  .  .  The  artistic  skill 
with  which  this  extraordinary  story  is  constructed  and  carried  out  is  admira 
ble  and  delightful.  ...  Mr.  Crawford  has  scored  a  decided  triumph,  for 
the  interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained  throughout.  ...  A  very  remarkable, 
powerful,  and  interesting  story."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66    FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


ZOROASTER. 

"The  field  of  Mr.  Crawford's  imagination  appears  to  be  unbounded.  .  .  . 
In  'Zoroaster'  Mr.  Crawford's  winged  fancy  ventures  a  daring  flight. 
.  .  .  Yet  '  Zoroaster'  is  a  novel  rather  than  a  drama.  It  is  a  drama  in  the 
force  of  its  situations  and  in  the  poetry  and  dignity  of  its  language;  but  its 
men  and  women  are  not  men  and  women  of  a  play.  By  the  naturalness  of 
their  conversation  and  behavior  they  seem  to  live  and  lay  hold  of  our  human 
sympathy  more  than  the  same  characters  on  a  stage  could  possibly  do." 
—  The  Times. 

A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind  as  this  brief  and 
vivid  story.  ...  It  is  doubly  a  success,  being  full  of  human  sympathy,  as 
well  as  thoroughly  artistic  in  its  nice  balancing  of  the  unusual  with  the 
commonplace,  the  clever  juxtaposition  of  innocence  and  guilt,  comedy  and 
tragedy,  simplicity  and  intrigue." —  Critic. 

"  Of  all  the  stories  Mr.  Crawford  has  written,  it  is  the  most  dramatic,  the 
most  finished,  the  most  compact.  .  .  .  The  taste  which  is  left  in  one's  mind 
after  the  story  is  finished  is  exactly  what  the  fine  reader  desires  and  the 
novelist  intends.  ...  It  has  no  defects.  It  is  neither  trifling  nor  trivial. 
It  is  a  work  of  art.  It  is  perfect."  —  Boston  Beacon. 


MARION   DARCHE. 

"  Full  enough  of  incident  to  have  furnished  material  for  three  or  four 
stories.  ...  A  most  interesting  and  engrossing  book.  Every  page  unfolds 
new  possibilities,  and  the  incidents  multiply  rapidly."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  We  are  disposed  to  rank  '  Marion  Darche '  as  the  best  of  Mr.  Crawford's 
American  stories." —  The  Literary  World. 

AN  AMERICAN  POLITICIAN. 


THE  NOVEL:    What  It  Is. 

iSrno.    Cloth.    75  Cents. 

"  When  a  master  of  his  craft  speaks,  the  public  may  well  listen  with  care 
ful  attention,  and  since  no  fiction-writer  of  the  day  enjoys  in  this  country  a 
broader  or  more  enlightened  popularity  than  Marion  Crawford,  his  explana 
tion  of  The  Novel:  What  It  Is,'  will  be  received  with  flattering  interest."  — 
The  Boston  Beacon. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


A     000676692     7 


